Mirror, Mirror
by Cha Oseye Tempest Thrain
Summary: RE-POSTED. Sequel to Life Support. Rated 'R' for language, sexual situations, violence... More than one AU involved. COMPLETE
1. Ten Impossible Things Before Breakfast

Disclaimer:  I do not own many of these characters, and I refuse to take responsibility for Toby, she is her own life-form now.

Author's notes:  If I didn't have an alternate universe _before_ writing this, one has been created, simply due to the nature of the story.  I warn you, it's a long one, so if you're looking for a quick read, this ain't it.  Thanks to everybody who reviewed _Life Support_, I'm trying to keep your suggestions in mind as I write this.  Please, keep me on my toes here, too.  Anyone sensitive about language, sexual situations (yes, there is some minor slash warnings), mental illness or violence, would be advised to stop reading now.  Though why you would be reading a story rated 'R' for all those reasons, I don't know, but you can't say I didn't warn you. 

Oh, and don't worry if you see some other work popping up while I write this:  I AM following this through to the end.  I'm just writing the others at the same time so I'm not tempted to rush my way through this to get to the next idea (Akin, I think that may be what happened to the last chapter of Life Support).

Author's notes II: To make it easier for my readers (not that I'm underestimating your intelligence, believe me, I'd rather over estimate, but I know puzzling things out can take away from getting into the story, oh and I don't want to repeat this if I don't have to) anything in square [brackets] is a flashback.  Anything in {these} brackets is from Toby, and anything in **bold font _especially italicised_ **is from Inner-Charles.  Oh, as for the math?  God Bless Excel.

Mirror, Mirror Chapter 1:  Ten Impossible Things Before Breakfast 

           Mirror, Mirror on the wall…

                                             -- Snow White

            Does time travel imply pre-destination?

-- Toby Howard

            _Why do crises always have to happen on _my_ watch?_  Well, technically this one started on the night shift, but had been growing ever since.

            **_Because, Tucker, you were stupid enough to let them make you the Son-of-a-bitch-in-charge_****_._**  Nice to know his inner voice was still on his side.  Oh well, he needed someone to talk to about this situation, and since they were trying to keep it quiet so as not to alarm the crew, there weren't a lot of people on his conversation list.  He hurried down the hallway, legs stretching to cover as much ground as possible without breaking into a run.  Death wasn't quite that imminent, and as Malcolm would say: an officer never rushes, it demoralizes the troops.

            Still, unless he hurried somewhat they'd be demoralized anyway.  **_That tends to be a side effect of your ship falling apart around you._**

            "Oh, hush."  Not one of his normal expressions, but somehow fitting to the occasion.  He remembered something an old friend once said:  'Sometimes there's no swearing potent enough for the situation.  At that point, oh, dear.'  Just so long as nobody noticed him talking to himself.  Everybody still wasn't sure he was entirely in his right mind; though when they said that, they generally wanted him in his left one.[1]

            **_Puns, Tucker?  Now I know you're in trouble_.**  The higher the stress level of the situation the greater his tendency to speak to himself as a separate entity.  **_Dissociation in the face of pressure?  Isn't that one of the danger signs?_**

"Oh, hush." He repeated.  Besides, his ship was going crazy; he'd fit right in.  He wished Malcolm and T'Pol hadn't talked Captain Archer into secrecy.  Sure, people might get a little antsy, but with everything that was going wrong, did they think that nobody would notice?  The only effect an information lockdown had tended to be rumour, paranoia and panic.

            **_Something's wrong, top brass doesn't trust us and we're all going to die_.**  At least Trip and Inner-Charles agreed on something.  Even if it was the fact that two of his friends were being idiots.

            "So what if it's procedure?" He'd argued vainly "It doesn't work."  The part of him that resented authority, **_and you wonder_ why _you hate yourself_**, wanted to hit the nearest intercom and make a general announcement.

            _Attention, people.  We are all going to die.  That is all_.

            Trip snorted.  Yeah, that about covered it all right.  What happened, what continued to happen, should never have been able to happen.  The main computer -- somewhere, somehow – had picked up a virus.  Slowly but surely pieces of code were being eaten away, throwing the machine into chaos.

**_            And therein lies the greatest danger of living in space.  No one planetside has to trust their survival to a two-bit idiot_**.  But on Enterprise _everything_:  air, water, temperature, even gravity was controlled by the computer.  Half the food supplies were in stasis modules, and a good portion of the rest came out of the resequencer.  Never before had Trip the technophile felt so vulnerable.  _We should have had more failsafes_.

            The latest problem lay just around the corner.  He turned, and stopped.  A Maintenance tech was working on the junction he needed and two of his people reached around and over top of her, doing their own thing.

            _Bryson and Higgens_.  Always together, they formed what he thought of as the rude and crude contingent of his staff.  Unfortunately Bryson's mother ran the Senate committee that approved Starfleet funding and Higgens was vaguely related to the Earth ambassador to Vulcan.  He was stuck with them, much as he resented it.

            Right now, they discussed some of the finer points of Lieutenant Hess' anatomy (safely away from the danger of Hess herself), seemingly oblivious to the obvious tension the caused for the crewman in front of them.  He supposed he should be somewhat gratified that they took the initiative to fix a problem without being asked, but his natural dislike for the pair made the idea untenable.

            "And can you imagine what that ass feels like?"

            Bryson laughed at his friend's question, his hand making a grasping motion.  "I would certainly love to find out."  They both cracked up at that, and it was all Trip could do not to strangle the pair of them.  And he would have, if not for the Maintenance tech – who was she anyway – who gave the impression that the last thing she needed was for somebody to snap.

            **_That's a superior officer you're talking about boys_**.  Inner-Charles took malicious glee in the thought of what would happen to them if that superior officer found out.  **_And one who could dismantle you with her bare hands_**.  With black belt ratings in three martial arts, Hess had made herself some extra money helping recruits to attain the self-defence standard necessary for Starfleet acceptance.  Not to mention holding the dubious honour of possessing a temper more volatile than his own.

Finally, his mind threw up an answer to the tech question:  Kaci DiLorenza.  He knew her probably better than anybody did, he realised, which was to say not at all.  She was a ghost in every but the literal sense: she drifted through, never appearing in the gossip files (and unless it involved him, Trip heard all the gossip) never being noticed by those around her.

            _Now why didn't I see that before?_  Technically Maintenance fell under his purview, though Lieutenant Mitchell usually handled the day-to-day operations.  Still, he tried to make it a point to know, at least slightly, everyone under his command.

            He felt his fingers curling into fists as Bryson and Higgens continued their banter.  **_Sure, give them something to nail you with, Stupid.  Stop being such a goddamn mother hen.  _**Listen**_ to me for once._**

            "Ahem."  Every subordinate in history could recognize that cleared throat.  Bryson and Higgens snapped to; their conversation ceased instantly.  DiLorenza seemed to melt into the wall, trying to disappear.  _Is she afraid of me?_

            "Gentlemen, I think if you are going to continue that avenue of conversation it would be best if you did so elsewhere and on your own time."  Implicit in the tone were the words _and it might be a good idea if you didn't continue that avenue of conversation at all_.

            "Yes, sir.  Sorry, sir."  It came out a chorus; they were more surprised than embarrassed, he could tell.

            "Now, I need both of you to get back to engineering.  I want you to keep an eye on the plasma feeds, they've been a little sticky lately."  Okay, not the best excuse, but he didn't want to have to explain what he was working on here, either.

            "Turbolift is out of order, sir.  That's why we're here.  We were…" Only Higgens could come up with so lame an excuse to a simple request.

            "Walk, Mr. Higgens.  There are other lifts on this ship, I'm sure one of them can get you to engineering."

            "Yes, sir."  They left, snickering.

            **_Guess what, Mommy.  Commander Tucker is the lamest geek in the universe.  He actually told me to be respectful and walk somewhere_**.  Inner-Charles liked the two of them even less, if such a thing were possible.  He also tended to be more politically astute than Trip himself.

            "Sorry, crewman.  I'll speak to them."

            She looked up at him, dark bangs falling into even darker eyes.  Less than five feet tall, she made him feel like a giant, imposing.  She didn't fall into the classic category of pretty:  her eyes were a little too big, her lips a bit too small.  She carried some extra weight around the waist too, not much but enough to be seen.  She bit her nails, too – the ragged edges testified to that.

            She blinked for a moment, as though trying to place him then turned back to her work.

            _What?  No 'Thank you, Commander?'  No 'It's okay, Commander, it's not that bad?'  Not even 'What do you want, Commander?'_  He was used to women with a tendency to talk; intense silence creeped him out.

            "Mn-hm." He could see now that she'd made progress on fixing the problem here, especially given what she was up against.  Oh, not the computer issue, but the ongoing incompetence of Higgens and Bryson.

            Without warning, the ship lurched, stealing his balance.  Falling, he grabbed DiLorenza for support – pure reflex that – but she was too slight, too off balance herself.  Together they crashed to the floor of the lift; he heard a crunch and pain told him he had a broken nose.

            "Ahhh."  Why was it he could handle a broken anything else, but as soon as it was nasal cartilage he fell apart like an unsoldered joint under pressure?  "Fuck.  Shit. Goddamnit."  Screaming, he rolled into a foetal position, clapping his hands to his face.  Mucus filled blood seeped through his fingers and mixed with tears as he tried not to breathe.  A full minute passed before the pain cleared enough for him to open his eyes.  As he did, the ship shuddered again, and then the lights went out. Completely.

            "This is not good." He muttered.  There should be auxiliaries even with main power gone.  Instead, the only light came from the glowstrips that wrapped the walls of the lift, about halfway up.

            _And to think that they didn't want to install those_.  He'd had to fight to get the luminescents in:  auxiliaries were supposed to be more than sufficient; if the failsafes failed – the argument went – you were probably in too much trouble to worry about lights.

            **_Don't get too full of yourself_**.  If the virus had managed to knock out both systems…

            "All hands, this is Captain Archer.  Abandon ship.  I repeat, all hands abandon ship."

            Trip scrambled to his feet and hit the controls.  Nothing happened, the doors refused to budge.  He pulled at them but his bloody fingers slipped on the metal.  Scrubbing his hands on his uniform, he tried again.  Still nothing.

            "Shit.  Shit, shit, shit!" He punctuated his words with a series of kicks to the doors, which didn't do anything other than hurt. If the other senior officers saw him now, they'd give him the scolding of his life for acting like this in front of a subordinate.  Hell, he'd give himself a lecture if he weren't too busy being upset.  If Archer was willing to give the command to abandon ship, they didn't have much time.  Catastrophe was here.  He could hear the running footsteps of the other members of the crew heading for the escape pods and the shuttlecraft.  _So, this is what it felt like on the lower decks of the Titanic_.  Trapped, and well aware that the ship was going down and you with it.  **_Isn't that supposed to be the captain's job?_**  Well, whoever's job it was, it suddenly didn't seem like a romantic notion.  He felt _better_ damnit.  More than a week, now, since the day when he would've welcomed it.  This wasn't fair; he didn't want to die _now._

            _{Well thank God for some small mercies}_ _This_ voice in his head made him jump.  Well, not quite in his head really, more to the back of his mind and off to one side.

            **_You just can't admit that you're actually hearing voices, can you._  **The new one snickered at Inner-Charles' comeback, oh yeah she'd love to hear that he was going insane, that would be so much more interesting, wouldn't it.

            "Depression, itself, is a mental disorder, Toby." He muttered, praying DiLorenza didn't notice.  "And I seem to recall you having some trouble with that."

            _{Okay, okay.  Don't get so snippy about it, Trip.  I just think you should indulge yourself some more instead of being so _responsible_.  You…}_

            The ship began to dance as the escape pods launched, and then, _Oh, FUCK_.  The turbolift plunged as the last of the battery power to the electromagnets drained away.  The inertial force yanked him forward, smacking his forehead into the front wall.  And memory stopped.

            He awoke to a rhythmic banging.  His first thought was that his head was responsible, then realized that the noise came from outside his skull.  Opening his eyes, he saw DiLorenza working a piece of glowstrip from the wall.

            "I don't think we can get out that way." The space between the lift and the wall of the shaft was too narrow for a person to fit, even one as small as Hoshi.  No way he and DiLorenza would make it.  A more important question occurred to him, one that he half didn't want an answer to.  "Why are we still alive?"

            She glanced over at him as if to determine that he _was_ still alive, then turned back to her work. Only then did he realise that she floated in midair, and so did he.

            "Oh." Well that answered part of the question, why the _fall_ hadn't killed them.  The grav-generators must have kicked out too, meaning that _everything_ on the ship would be in a state of suspension.  The bigger part remained a mystery, however:  why hadn't the ship self-destructed?  If the abandonment order had been given, the ship _should_ have been in such a state that no repairs were possible, that no _time_ remained to effect repairs, even if they were.  Even a complete loss of life-support didn't necessitate leaving the ship, at least not right away.  So, what was going on?  He wasn't the type to look miracles in the mouth **_like hell, you're not, Tucker,_** but he didn't like being part of the unexplained either.  Miracles were fine, so long as they happened to other people.

            _{Uh, oh.}_

            "What?"  Thankfully, DiLorenza didn't seem to notice him speak.

            _{Trip, we have a major problem here.  Power surge coming from the…}_

            He screamed as gravity kicked in again, dropping him unceremoniously to the floor, and giving new understanding to the term 'pain in the ass'.  DiLorenza faired better than he did, grabbing a rail and landing on her feet.  As for Toby…

            _{Being dead does have its advantages.  Not having to worry about certain annoying laws of physics is one of them.  Oh, by the way, I'm getting better at the electrical thing; I don't think I'm going to short out as much stuff anymore.  It's all a matter of keeping…}_

            "Another time, Toby."  Unfortunately, Toby remained perpetually fifteen as well, and despite her maturity in other areas had never mastered the art of the double-sided conversation.  In fact, silence scared her even more than him; she constantly tried to fill it with observations on anything that came to mind.  He had mixed feelings on hearing her voice, however.  On the one hand, her familiar presence brought with it a comfort – no one knew him better than her – but on the other, it meant that his stress level was high enough for his rational side to stop functioning.  How did she put it?  His brain no longer tried to exclude the reality he couldn't accept?

            _{I thought we were past all that_._}_

            Luckily the fall proved short this time, they must have been close enough to the bottom of the shaft to minimise the effect.

            "So nice.  I'd hate for someone to have to find jellied Trip all over the floor."  Which is how it could have so easily been:  what few people seemed to grasp is that whatever speed the container they were in fell at, that was the speed they fell at as well.  And when the container stopped… well it didn't take a physicist to figure out the next part, but it would take an anatomist a while to sort out what was left.

            He saw that DiLorenza had succeeded in getting the strip from the wall, now she began boring a hole in the end of it.  _What the hell is she doing_?  When she accomplished that, she took a piece of wire from her tool belt and attached the strip to the belt.  Then she looked up at the ceiling, contemplating.

            _Of course_.  They couldn't get out through the walls, but the roof of the lift opened into empty shaft.  Empty except for the emergency ladder that ran up the side.  What was it he had just suggested to Higgens?  "Hang on."  He climbed to his feet, and walked over to DiLorenza, cupping his hands in front of him.  She looked at them, looked at his face then reached out and…

            "Ahhh.  Goddamn.  You _bitch_!"  She twisted his nose; she looked right at him then reached out and yanked on what was currently the most sensitive part of his entire body.  He breathed in, ready to tear something off her, then realised that he could breathe.  Through his nose instead of walking around like an idiot with his mouth hanging open. Now he only _felt_ like an idiot. "Thank you."  He reached out his hands again, and this time she placed her foot in them, stepping easily up onto his shoulders.  Once there she set to work loosening the ceiling panel.  He realized how graceful she was:  despite her awkward position and newly elevated centre of gravity she didn't teeter or sway, even when she passed the panel down, forcing him to let go of her ankles to take it away from her.

            She raised herself up through the opening so smoothly that it must have all been done by arm power alone.  _Strong, too_.  She swivelled around to lie on her stomach, one arm reaching down to him.

            _At least you're not too chauvinistic to not accept the assistance._  If he'd had any tendencies that way, his mother would've knocked them out of him early.  A gentleman -- yes he was supposed to be -- but if she'd ever caught him making any assumptions about who was the weaker sex… well she was perfectly capable of knocking him well into the middle of another decade.

            When he scrambled topside, he felt a new rush of respect for DiLorenza.  Had she not thought to abscond with the glowstrip, they'd be climbing blind, something he relished not at all.  Bad enough to have to climb in this stale air all the way to…

            "Oh, fuck no."  The only two places to restore main power were Engineering or the bridge.  Engineering on D-Deck was closest only -- _lets see G-D is three decks, looking at an average of 3.10 metres per deck, plus about .66 of a metre between each for the maintenance shafts, add on the fact that we are actually _below_ G deck by about 1.5 metres – _12.78 metres up.  Didn't sound like much, then neither did 100 yards until you found yourself camped out on your own 1 yard line looking down the field towards infinity. This infinity ran straight up, a direction he'd never relished going in.

            _You just finished going rock-climbing with Captain Archer.  You scaled sheer cliffs in survival training.  You balanced on a ledge at the top of Starfleet Headquarters while bolting down a holographic imager.  Don't tell me you're going to let a minor thing like acrophobia keep you from climbing a silly little ladder._  He _had_ done all those things, and been terrified while doing it.  The trick was not to let anyone else know.

            **I_ know.  Who do you think is the one hating heights around here?  What do you think this is?  Ignore it and it will go away?  I hate to tell you this, Tucker, but at a 12.78 metre drop you're going to be going at 15.83 metres per second – _if_ we're dealing with 1.0 gravity here -- which combined with your seventy-five and three quarter kilograms is going to create an inertial force of oh, around 742.35 kilogram force, which is perfectly capable of brewing up that jellied Trip you were talking about earlier.  It's never the fall that kills you, it's the landing on an unyielding surface in a very yielding sack of meat, blood and ossified calcium, or in other words_****_going from 56.99 kilometres per hour to zero in a single instant_**_.  **And don't forget you're leaving out the thickness of the deck plating which doesn't seem like a hell of a lot, but **_**is_ when you consider that _each_ deck has dual layer flooring each layer separated by _another_ .6 of a metre filled with all those struts and all that insulation, meaning you're actually falling 14.58 metres which means that impact is going to be that much harder.  Then again, you're forgetting that E, like D is a double deck, meaning, that if anything happens you are _fucked.  _Am I making myself clear?_**

_            Are you done?  Because I think DiLorenza's leaving without us._ Indeed, the light grew dimmer as DiLorenza climbed upward, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she left a senior officer behind.  Then why should she care?  _He_ wasn't doing a hell of a lot to contribute to their survival situation around here.  _She _was the one doing all the thinking, all the _practical_ stuff.  _Besides, those calculations only fit if I fall from the top._

            **_And since when have you ever fallen from the bottom of anything?_**  He had to admit that was true; if he was going to fall, it was going to be from somewhere spectacular.  **_Not to mention that you lied to Archer?  That the rocks _didn't_ slip under your feet; that _you_ slipped because even thinking of the drop made you dizzy?_**

            "Don't think about it then."  Kind of like not thinking of pink, killer fuzzy bunnies (when did Gina come into this?) but… ten impossible things before breakfast, right?

            "Six, actually," Gina'd told him the first day he misquoted, "If you do ten, you're just being contrary."  So he told her he actually intended eleven, cracking her up for the rest of the day.

            He gripped the first rung, and tried to convince himself that there wasn't another option.  _Anyone for twelve?_

* * *

[1] For anyone unfamiliar with even the basics of neuroscience, the right brain is the visual, creative centre, whereas the left is the logic, language centre.


	2. Rabbit Holes

DISCLAIMER:  Many of these characters (i.e., Trip, Hess) are not mine.  Those that are, well, I refuse to be held responsible for my channelling abilities.  They are who they are, and I'm afraid I can't do much about it anymore.  This story is written for entertainment only.

_I've picked a last name for Trip's mother's maiden name, mainly because my research skills aren't good enough to find if there's ever been a reference to it.  If anyone knows otherwise, **PLEASE** let me know and I will fix it.  This is not an intent to re-write history (I've done enough of that), it is purely through lack of my own knowledge, and a need for the narrative to continue._

Chapter 2:  Rabbit Holes

It's a matter of trust…

                        -- Billy Joel

Do cats eat bats?  Do bats eat cats?

                                    -- Alice

            [  Space.  Final frontier, valued commodity.   Growing up there'd always been enough, and then all of a sudden it was Residence at university and shared quarters at the academy.  He could move out now though, now that that damned first year was over and Starfleet medical had their assessment as to how well you got along with others.  _About damned time_.  Not that he didn't get along with others; just sometimes, they got too close.  And when they were getting too close in the next bed… well sometimes even a pillow over the ears didn't help.

            Unfortunately, it seemed as though everybody and his dog had decided that San Francisco was THE place to be, and spare rooms were rarer than coelacanths and apartments were up there on par with the dodo.  Thus, he found himself on a beach at midnight, preferring cold sea air to the stale warmth of the academy.  _You were always more of an outdoors type of guy, anyway_.  Swimming, diving, football… all of them outdoor pursuits.  Days spent with Toby, camping trips with his buddies – all of his happiest moments lay outside.  Too much time spent indoors and he began to wonder where the stars were, whether or not they only existed in his imagination.

            _Getting out _there_, now that will be different.  Indoors sure, but stars out every window.  Bleeding past in streaks of light, so close you could reach out and touch them.  Pick a direction and fly anywhere.  _Who _cared_ who your roommate were when you danced through the cosmos, in the ultimate out of doors, not even hemmed in by a planet.  _God, that's going to be nice_.

            Still, if he didn't get his own space down here pretty quick, he wasn't going to make it to get out there.  He'd be locked up for beating his roommates to death with a pillow or…  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  No.  That was _not_ an option.  It would never _be_ an option.  He'd _kill_ himself before he let that be an option.  "There has to be _something_." Didn't anybody have a basement they weren't using, an empty bedroom from a child gone off to college?  A _tool shed_?  He didn't need much space, just his own.

            Something fluttered out of the darkness, tumbling over and over until it landed at his feet.  A small rectangle, no bigger than eight-and-a-half by four-and-a-half inches, probably someone's trash.  Picking it up, he realised it was an old-fashioned business card, something nobody used anymore.  The moonlight proved to weak to reveal the writing, so he trekked up the path to study it under the streetlight.

            The front held an odd looking logo, a pink line drawing of a fuzzy rabbit holding a plasma rifle, an evil look on its rabbit face.  As he looked closer, he could see it wasn't a line drawing at all:  the entire image was made up of tiny ones and zeros.  Below the logo was a single line of type:  Gina Todd.  When he flipped it over, he found the back covered with handwriting.

            350/month.  Utilities inc.  Shared kit/bath/util.  MUST be tlrt,nonjdgmtl.  NGA!!

_            Okay, the first part I understand_.  Amazingly 350 was within his budget and even if he had to share a kitchen and bathroom, that was perfectly fine.  Whatever the hell tlrt, nonjdgmtl and NGA meant however… they weren't terms he'd ever come across in a rental description.  Then the last line… 1000101011-1100111011000.  It took a minute for him to realise, then flipped the card over to look at the front, and then back again, a smile spreading across his face.  If an engineer couldn't translate _that_…

            _555-3308_.  A contact number.  But it looked odd, like – what was it – a _telephone_ number.  Archaic technology again.  Nobody had telephones: the network was gone, lost in the war, never to be rebuilt.  Yet, despite its style, the card was fairly new, so it _couldn't_ be a telephone.

            _Okay.  You know this person likes puzzles.  So obviously, the number is a puzzle too, right?  A screening process to make sure they get the right kind of person_.  He thought back to some of his favourite stories, Poe's Dupin tales.  _The puzzle seems complex because the human mind likes complex solutions.  So the best puzzles are those with a simple solution, the one everybody overlooks_.

            '**_Every problem has a solution, one that is simple, elegant and wrong_.'  **Lately he'd been hearing another voice just underneath his own thoughts, a negative warning little voice that seemed to enjoy shooting holes in all his best ideas.  He _had_ been going to go to the nearest com-box and type in the number, see what happened.  He looked at the logo again, then down the street.  A small café was still open, and they had data-web access.  **_Find out what this _is_, then go jumping in with both feet_.**

            In the café, he scanned the image into the computer and told it to look for a match.  An instant later one popped up:  Pink Killer Fuzzy Bunnies Inc.  He popped on over to their site and found it to be a programming company.  _Well that fits in with the binary_.  A line at the bottom of the page caught his attention:  Please enter the data code of your inquiry followed by a small entry box that would hold no more than eight digits.  _Not_ a contact number, but a _code_, probably very specific to the site itself.

            _Here goes nothing_.  He typed in the number (including the dash) and was rewarded with a new page.  A single line, address and street.  And a little counter telling him he was the fifth person to reach this site.  _Oh no_.  Four people before him – what were the odds that one of them had managed to snag the room first?  He massaged the bridge of his nose with his fingers; a headache threatened to move in.  All that just to find out that you were four people _late_?

            **_"It ain't over till it's over."_**  Oddly, sometimes the voice was the only thing that kept him going.  It didn't suggest, it _demanded_ and in the kind of tones that even an admiral would jump to.  He'd first heard it in those gruelling early days at the academy:  when his mind threatened to leave his body because his body was no longer habitable.  Those long ugly days of PT that made football training seem like summer art camp.  **_You are _not_ going to quit_,** it argued, **_you _will_ make it through this.  There is no _way_ you are going to quit.  You made a promise, now stick with it_.  **So on those days when every other part of him tried to say that it wasn't worth it, that nothing was worth it, he still didn't have the nerve to give in, like so many of his classmates did.  It harped on him more than any coach, any drill instructor ever could.  And he _did_ make it, pushing through the pain and exhaustion, coming out on the other side a full-fledged Starfleet trainee.  _Many apply, few are chosen_.  An old saying, now adopted now by Starfleet as a motto.  **_The same thing here?_**

            He decided not to wait: at least he could head over there to take a look.  The address listed it as about a block away from the Vulcan compound; he found a tall, narrow house, well lit up despite the hour.  Logic and basic human decency said wait until morning, but curiosity and desperation won out.  _I _need_ my own space_.

            There was no doorbell, so he had to knock.  Before his fist could land twice, however, the door opened, seemingly of its own accord.

            "Hello?"  He peered cautiously inside, but no one was visible.  Should he just step in, or what?  "Hello?"

            A staircase lay to the left of the door, going to a second floor landing.  On the landing, a small head peeked through the railing.  "Hello?"  The voice was a perfect imitation of his own, right down to intonation and accent.

            "Hi."  He smiled; children had that automatic effect on him.  _One day I'm going to have _lots_ of my own_.  "Is your mommy home?"

            "Hi.  Is your mommy home?"  Again, that same, eerie imitation, like a recording and playback.

            "I know it's awfully late, but I'm here about the room."

            "I know it's awfully late, but I'm here about the room."

            Okay, something definitely was out of whack here.  Finally another door on the landing opened, and a man came out, gestured to the child.  He looked down at Trip, clearly defensive.  "What do you want?"

            _Oh, God.  All I wanted was some space of my own, and now I've gone and made someone think I'm a child molester or something.  Is there nothing I can do right?_  Aloud he said, "I'm here about the room."  He waved the card for emphasis, hoped it would work.

            "Oh."  This seemed to mollify the man, who walked down the landing and banged on another door.  "Geen.  Some guy here about the room?"  He then returned to the child and herded him inside without ever touching him.  And in that instant, it became clear.

            _Oh_.

            Out of the second door came the last thing Trip expected: another child, but with an adult's head.  It was only as she moved across the floor that he realised that she _was_ an adult, and that she wasn't standing up.  "Hang on, I'll be down in a minute."  She wheeled herself quickly across the landing.  She disappeared into a door adjacent the stairs, and then came out from behind them, this time on his level.  "It was easier to install the ramp elsewhere than destroy the front room.  Besides, the heritage committees would _kill_ me if I messed with the foyer too much.  At the same time, they can't do _too_ much to me without breaking the accessibility laws.  And you are?"

            "Charles Tucker the third, ma'am.  Trip." He waited at the door, uncertain or not as to whether he'd received an invitation to come in yet.

            "Polite, too.  I don't know when I've ever been called 'ma'am' before.  Isn't that supposed to apply to little old ladies?"  Mischief twinkled in her eyes, though he had to admit that she definitely wasn't a little old lady.  Black hair, bright green eyes, and she couldn't be a day over twenty-two.  "Gina Todd."  She held out her hand, and he realised he had to walk over to shake it.  He did, and the door closed behind him on its own.

            "So.  You're clearly looking for a room."  She looked him up and down, critically.  "How did you find out about this one, and what makes you think you'll qualify?"

            He brandished the card again.  "This fell at my feet.  I worked out the number, went to your site…"

            "Most wouldn't.  So you jumped through my first hoops.  Do you think you'll get through the next ones?"  It was a clear challenge, something a Donnelly never backed down from.  _Thank-you, mother_.

            He looked her straight in the eye, like he did his instructors at the academy when answering one of their questions.  _Never let them see you flinch_.  "There's not much I can't do when I want to, ma'am."

            "Confident, too.  You met David, what do you think?"

            David.  The boy or his father?  Time for a gamble.  "Autism's rather rare now, isn't it?  Most people have the gene repaired before it manifests in their child."  He paused for a moment – not long enough for her to reply – then added one more shot.  "The echolia is interesting, though.  With most, it's just the words, but he seems much more of a mimic."  None of which he would have known were it not for his summers at camp.  Volunteering, not attending. And while the incentive for the first year had been purely for an edge in the scholarship awards race, the second, third and fourth years had been through pure love of the job.

            "Do you think Angelo was wrong not to have him 'fixed'?"  She showed no surprise at his identification of the source of the child's apparently strange behaviour, but he could definitely hear the quotation marks around the last word.

            He decided to ignore it.  "I don't know.  On the one hand, it can be argued that by not doing so he's limited the boy, made it impossible for him to have a normal life.  On the other, he obviously loves and cares for his son, and gene therapy always includes a risk.  Is it a risk I could take with my own child?  I don't know."  He had a good idea what nonjdgmtl meant now: non-judgemental.  Working on that shorthand, could tlrt mean _tolerant_?   It still didn't give him a clue about NGA.

            "Do you have kids?" An illegal question, surely she knew that.

            He decided to answer anyway.  "No.  But I plan to.  Someday."

            "Why did you come here at one-o'clock in the morning.  Surely there was a better time?"

            "I didn't want to get lost, ma'am.  He who hesitates?"  Okay, not the best answer, but he'd be damned if he'd let her push him into giving up.  The lights _had_ been on, the door _had_ opened.

            "What do you do for a living?  It _is_ 350 a month."

            "Yes, ma'am, I was able to read that.  I'm with Starfleet ma'am."

            "And did you read the part where it said No Government Agents?"

            _Damn._  So that was what NGA meant.  "Well, I wouldn't exactly call myself an agent of the government, ma'am.  Starfleet is an arms-length organisation, kind of like NASA was.  And I'm just a trainee, ma'am, there's no guarantee I'll make it through the entire course."

            "Why not?  Aren't you good enough?"  _God_amn, this woman could be a younger version of his mother.  Pushing him one way, then coming out of the other direction with a shot aimed for damage.  Brain ticking along so fast it was a wonder she didn't get charged with speeding violations.

            "Better.  I just don't completely fit in with all the culture, ma'am."  There, it was out, the one thing he never dared confess down there at Starfleet itself.  The fact that he chafed against the rules, that no matter how well he seemed to get along with everybody, he was friends with none of them.

            A slow smile spread across her face, and she extended her hand again.  "Neither do any of us, here, Charles Tucker the Third.  I think you'll fit in just fine."

            _Holy, shit_.  He could barely keep from screaming and jumping up and down as he reached to take her hand again.  _I got it!_  Part of him wondered what it was that the other people missed.  Did they not show up yet? Did they, like he almost did, wait for an appropriate hour?  Or maybe it was their performance on the questions.  The bigger part of him didn't care.  All that mattered was he _got_ it:  he actually got his own room.  ]

            _Not the first place I'dve gone, had I had a choice._  Gina ran more of a techie-artist's commune than apartment or boarding house, _but probably the place I most needed to be_.  He smiled at the memory: somehow getting lost in the past made it easier not to concentrate on what he was doing in the present.  And to realise how easily it could have worked out differently.  Gina _had_ intended to post the cards in more typical venues:  Laundromats, cafes, and the like, but David, after tiring of the designs of the cards themselves, tossed them from the window and onto the wind, watching the new design they made dancing away.  It was a measure of the attitude of the place that Gina hadn't scolded or been angry, but laughed at the result.  God's own delivery system, she'd called it, guaranteed to bring the right candidate.  And David – in some ways – was closer to "normal" than many of the other residence, some which came and went with astounding frequency.  Frighteningly, Gina had been right.  He _did_ fit right in.

            The ship jerked, pulling him out of his thoughts, then went into a spin.  _Normally_ that would merely be a slight equilibrium problem for some people, most wouldn't even notice it unless they looked out a window or happened to be running the helm.  With inertial dampeners offline however, it was more like being caught in a whirlpool or tornado.  _Especially_ when the movement became more tumble than spin, centripetal force jerking them first in one direction then another.  Desperately he wrapped arms and legs around the ladder, his mind suddenly occupied with visions of hard landings.  _Remember, you used to like being in the tree house_.  Not that the tree house had ever behaved like a psychotic amusement park ride, but… **_Yeah, and there weren't many windows either.  As long as you were _in_ the house, you couldn't see where you were_.  **Or where you could end up very quickly for that matter.  He tried to remember whether or not you were supposed to close your eyes in a situation like this, gave up and clamped them shut.  What was a little dizziness compared to outright panic, anyway?

            After an eternity that was probably less than a minute, the ship stopped its dance and equilibrium returned.  He could hear DiLorenza resuming her climb, and then the noise ceased.  Her footsteps grew closer again, and then there was a gentle tap on his shoulder.

            "Uh, uh."  He shook his head; his entire body trembled.  He stayed wrapped around the ladder, holding tighter to it than he'd ever held to anything in his life.  Up, down, it didn't matter, because he wasn't going.   He could die here, _rot_ here; he didn't care.

            The tapping became a tugging, as she grasped a handful of his uniform, the message coming across stronger now.  He whimpered and pulled closer to the ladder – how it was possible he didn't know – tears beginning to streak his face.  He didn't _care_ if DiLorenza noticed, didn't care that his image of capable, confident Starfleet officer eroded away in the tears, washing away with the dried blood.  Fear had too deep a hold, moving in past his mind and straight into his nervous system.

            She let go of his uniform, reached instead for his hand.  Slowly, gently, she massaged the space between thumb and forefinger, until the muscles unclenched of their own accord.  Only then did she establish a firm grip on his forearm, pulling it upwards until his fingers brushed the next rung of the ladder.

            Come on.  It was an unspoken communication, the only kind he was capable of hearing. Come on.  Slowly he let himself be lulled by the promise, by the fact that she was there, and wouldn't abandon.  He sensed she'd coax him up rung by rung, if she had to, but would never leave him behind.  He felt his heart decelerate, until finally it resumed a slow, regular beat.    He wouldn't, _couldn't_ open his eyes; darkness had always been his first, favourite and best refuge.  Only when the sound of DiLorenza's climb stop did he allow himself the merest peek, and instantly regretted it.  They _were_ at Engineering, but one look at the doors told him what DiLorenza had already worked out.  The metal buckled, not enough to create a gap, but enough from preventing the doors from sliding into their sockets.  _Fuck_.  He wanted to start crying again, this time from sheer frustration.  Now the _only_ place to start was the Bridge.  Another three decks:  he couldn't make that, just couldn't.  Already he felt exhausted, if he tried to go further he would fall, and – as Inner Charles so recently pointed out – be going that much faster when he hit the bottom.

            DiLorenza seemed to understand what he was thinking.  She took his hand again, a gesture to move onwards.  _I can't._

            **Tucker._  If you stay here, you will die.  You _can_ do this; you've done tougher things before.    This isn't survival training; it's the real thing now.  One foot over the other, hand by hand._  **Just when he thought he had Inner-Charles figured out, the son-of-a-bitch changed personalities on him.  **_We can debate the topic later. _Now_ we need to insure that there is a later.  DiLorenza can't do this on her own, so unless you have decided that serial killer is your new title of choice, you have to help her out.  Understand?_**

            She stared down at him, her eyes saying more than her lips ever could.  Come on, we have to keep going.  It's the only way, I'll be right here.

            He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, unsure that he even still had a voice to speak with.  Onwards and upwards, towards what, he wasn't sure.

            C-deck passed, he could feel his arms pulling against his shoulder sockets, his ankles weakening from the stress of his weight being dropped down past his heels, instead of the proper balance they were used to.  His foot slipped…

            DiLorenza grabbed his arm, steadying him.  She made as though to shake him, to pull him along again, but one look in his eyes made her stop.

            _She can see it_.  The pain, the exhaustion, the frustration and fear.  No poker face for him now, it was too hard to simply maintain consciousness.  He leaned his head against the wall, unable to hold it up anymore.

            _Scratch, scratch, scratch_.  What the hell? He jerked his head back from the wall and stared.  Looked at the door and did some calculations.  _Hess_.  Lieutenant Hess' quarters lay just on the other side of the bulkhead.  His department second complained all the time about the noise from the turbolift when she was trying to sleep, but obstinately resisted any suggestion that she move.

            _Probably doesn't want to go through the work of re-installing everything_.  Amazing the amount of noise, you could put up with, if the alternative meant extra work.  A lot of extra work, considering all the stuff she had to move.

            **_Uh, Trip…_**  Inner-Charles sounded hesitant, as though reluctant to bring something up.

            Besides, Hess was never happy if she didn't have something to bitch about…

            **TRIP!**

            "What?"  Too tired now to care about whether or not he spoke aloud.  DiLorenza couldn't get a worse opinion of him now, even if he worked on it.  The answer served to wake him, instantly.

            **_Hess complains about noise from _within_ the turbolift.  _We_ are in the turbolift, and aren't making that kind of noise_.**

Which meant that the noise came from the far side of the wall.  Hess' quarters.  "I don't think we're alone."  The words came out, the softest of whispers, but DiLorenza seemed to hear.  Immediately she took up a position towards the side of the ladder and gripped one of the doors.  He nodded, manoeuvred himself into position, and said a brief prayer.  Together they pulled, the B-deck doors slowly moving back.  A quick glance revealed darkness; what little they could see thanks to the glowstrip appeared empty.  He scrambled out of the shaft, grateful for the feeling of solid deck beneath his hands and knees.  He waited until DiLorenza stood beside him before he got to his feet, and gestured for her to hand him the glowstrip.

            He moved close to the door of Hess' quarters.  They hadn't heard anybody leaving, which meant that whomever was in there was probably _still_ in there. 

            _Who?_ Was someone else left behind in the rush?  Hess?  If not Hess, then why were they rummaging around in her quarters?  He nodded at DiLorenza to pull the door back then dove inside as she did.  There was a thud as he landed on the floor, then nothing.  The glowstrip tossed odd shadows off the furniture, but there was nothing to indicate that anybody was there.  Yet he knew he heard something, that he hadn't imagined it.  He got up and stepped forward, slowly.

            Movement flashed in one of the shadows, followed quickly by another.  Startled, he spun and watched two small figures heading for freedom.  He couldn't have seen… not…

            _I guess Porthos isn't the only four-legged auxiliary crew we've got_.  He breathed deep, trying to let his heart return to normal.  He hadn't thought he had any adrenaline left until that moment.  "Goddamn cats and rabbits.  Only Nic."  So _that _was why she'd never move.  Nobody was supposed to have pets; the doctor's animals were classified under 'medical gear', and Porthos had the advantage of being Archer's closest companion.  _Captains get extra leeway_.  His famously sensitive nose (not as good as T'Pol's, but damned near) confirmed what he'd just seen; the scratching must have been a litter box.  _Scared the shit out of me._   He felt a giggle coming on, but if he started that, he'd never finish.

            _{Remember the day you started laughing and it took you five hours to stop?  You only paused to puke, and then kept going again.  Wasn't that the time you almost broke your neck falling down the stairs at school?  Danny Malone pushed you and you fell, and when you stopped you just started laughing, freaked the hell out of everybody…}_

            "Where the hell have you been?"  Funny how Toby skipped the climb.  _She_ wasn't afraid of heights.  He wondered if she could see his face in the dark, catch the look of disgust that he shot at her.

            _{Um, it would have looked kind of weird, me floating beside you all the way up that ladder.  Besides, I thought it might be too distracting for you, I know how you are with climbing things and all, and I thought that it might get you thinking about the drop, and then you'd be getting scared, and that's never a good thing when you're ten metres up in the air with nothing to land on but…}_

            "Toby."  His voice carried an extra measure of warning.  The last thing he wanted to think about right now was how close to death he'd been.  He'd been closer, sure, but somehow heatstroke and drowning didn't hold the same dread as a fall.

            **_You've not been that close to drowning yet_**.

            Close enough.  And both brushes with heatstroke _had_ been near fatal.  _Hot and humid I can handle.  Hot and dry…you might as well toss me in a tumble-dryer._  Odd, because most people found the humidity more taxing, but it was all what you grew up used to.

            Suddenly he was aware of how close his own quarters were.  Clean clothes, a chance to straighten himself up a bit.  He could smell himself now, the sour-sharp scent of terror sweat permeating every fibre of his uniform.  _I'll burn it before I wear it again_.  His face felt raw too, salt and blood dried on it, sucking the moisture from lower layers.  He broached the suggestion to DiLorenza, saw no indication of protest.  He offered her a change as well, even though one of his spare uniforms would look silly on her, like a kid playing grown-up.  Maybe something from Hoshi's quarters, they were here on B-Deck too.

            No.  A quick shake of her head indicated that she felt no need to replace what she was wearing.

            "Suit yourself."  He headed down the corridor, going more on memory than vision.  A year and a half into the tour made this a familiar journey, one he'd made more than often while dead on his feet from working a double or triple shift.

            **_You've got to learn to delegate_**.  Okay, so he was a bit of a control freak.  But that way if things went wrong, he'd know who needed to take responsibility, and would take it.  _No one to blame but myself_.

            **_No one to blame but yourself for your heart attack and stroke_.**

            Modern medicine could fix that; kick him out again good as new.  He rounded the corner and took an even ten paces.  _Home, sweet home_.  He didn't need the light, he could find anything in here in utter darkness, but somehow the light was comforting.

            "Coming in?"  He didn't want to leave DiLorenza stranded alone in the corridor, in the darkness.

            **_Who are _you_ kidding?  _You're_ the one who doesn't want to be alone._**

            Her entire body froze up, and he realised he'd said something wrong.  A second later he comprehended what it was.

            "Relax.  It was just a simple question.  I know what my reputation is, but I promise, I'm not playing spider to your fly."  Step into my parlour indeed.  In her shoes, he'd probably have done a double take as well.  He smiled, trying to put her at ease.  "I'm too worn out for pretty much anything now, anyway."  An old expression flashed across his mind.  "Plumb Tuckered out."

            _{Ouch.  I think that's the worst one you've come up with yet.}_

            Accurate though.  He was suddenly aware of how sick of himself he actually was.  He stank, he itched, and his behaviour wasn't up there on his best list either. _Yup, I sure wouldn't mind being somebody else for a while, in some other universe where this isn't happening_.  Some other Charles Tucker, lying on a beach, drink in one hand, someone gorgeous in the other.  That would be nice.

            **_And to think I have to live with this._**  Inner-Charles sounded disgusted at the thought, and even Toby was making a nasty face.

            He headed for the bathroom, and found out too late what he should've already guessed.  If the power was out, then so was the water.  _No shower_.  No working recycling system on the toilet, either.  _Explain _that_ one to the kids back home_.  He was pretty sure who was behind his infamous "poop question" those first few months out, and if he ever laid hands on the kid…  _You'd probably give him a big hug and take him out for ice-cream, isn't that right, Uncle Trip._  Easy to tell whose family that child belonged to.

            He crossed the room to his desk, his habit of keeping all decorations up against the wall proving to be a blessing.  Top drawer, back right hand corner.  His fingers located the pre-moistened shop towels he kept there.  Another old habit, from back in his mechanic obsessed days as a kid.  Rather than run back and forth to the bathroom every time he wanted to switch from working on a greasy piece of machinery and his computer (or having a snack), it was so much easier to simply clean them at the desk and keep going.  He pulled one out and set to work on his face as best he could in the dark without a mirror. 

            That accomplished, he moved to the closet.  From the top drawer of the built-in that ran down one side of the closet wall he pulled clean underwear, socks.  From the second…

            It should have been a uniform shirt for under his coveralls.  He felt something else instead.  Soft cotton, raised lettering.  _The_ shirt.  The shirt Gina bought him one day, and that David refused to accept him without.  So much so, that it was generation four or five of the shirt; each identical to the last.  _Autistics don't like change_.  And David had decided that Trip – for some reason – wasn't Trip without the black t-shirt with the white raised words that David couldn't read.  _YOU'RE JUST JEALOUS BECAUSE THE VOICES ARE TALKING TO ME_. 

            _How appropriate_.  Impulsively he slipped it on instead, and grabbed a pair of jeans from the drawer below.  Technically, if there was no crew, then there was no duty roster, and so he, it followed, was not on duty and therefore not required to be in uniform.  And as comfortable as the uniform was, it was still a uniform, something that vexed his independent spirit.

            And now another connection fizzed, then held.  _How very true…_

            [Sunlight dappled the wall in a bizarre ever-changing dust mote mosaic, drifting, twisting and jumping.  Chaos swirled into ever more complex patterns, patterns told stories.  History, eternity, all writ out in front of them, light, shadow, line and curve. Close -- one standing one standing and one sitting -- not touching, but somehow one creature, studying the universe unfolding in front of them.  Seeing.  Understanding.

            He'd come into his room, looking for some quiet study time, only to find David there, watching the sun.  No sense asking the boy to leave, he'd be gone as soon as his own study finished, instead Trip decided to work around him.

            Except… studying reaction equations became impossible, then suddenly pointless.  He could calculate anything he wanted, but he had no idea exactly what it was he was calculating.  Too many numbers got in the way of the reaction itself.  He kept finding his attention drawn back to David, until in a fit of frustration and insanity decided to try to find what it was the boy could see.  Over two hours ago, he'd sat down beside David and began watching with him.  Soon the man with no patience found himself sharing mindspace with the child who had it all.  As he stopped thinking, just observed, things began to shift, to make sense.  All of creation within one beam of light, slowly moving across the wall, broken gently by pieces of Earth.  Light, shadow, matter, anti-matter, quarks, photons, gravity, space and time – all of it there, beyond words, beyond any language the human mind could normally comprehend.  Together they simply watched; let it happen.  Neither one moved, save breath and the least of blinks, not even when Angelo came in, first furious and distrusting, then shocked at what he saw.  David, who avoided company, who shared his world with no one, in silent communication with Trip, who loved noise and lights, and seemed most at home in boisterous crowds than in silent contemplation.  He later confessed jealousy that a near stranger could form a closer bond than he with his own son.]

            What Angelo failed to understand was that Trip had not found a way to reach David, but rather David, a way to reach Trip.  Taking him from the edge of burnout, lighting the way back from the event horizon of the overly driven.  _I learned more from David in two hours, than from all my time in an Academy classroom_.  He doubted he'd have made it through that encounter with the Arkonian, Zho'Kaan, but for David's tutelage.  Hoshi was great for languages, sure, but David taught him that true communication _needed_ no language; that in most cases words only served to obscure.  Who _cared_ if he couldn't speak a word of Vulcan, or even French for that matter.  Thanks to David, he could understand butterflies.

            _And DiLorenza_.  She too spoke to him in that wordless language.  And she, like David, had that capacity to live in herself, it seemed.  _He,_ conversely, still had that inbuilt desire to be the best, be the brightest, to have everyone proud of him, that situations so out of his control – like this one – scared him, brought out the guilt and paralysis.

            He sat down on the edge of his bunk to tie his shoes, and felt his eyes closing on him.  He _was_ tired, so tired.  Surely a couple of minutes just sitting here wouldn't hurt.  Just a couple of minutes, then he'd get going again.  Just a couple…


	3. Imperfect Reflections pt 1

Disclaimer:  I do not own many of these characters.  Alternate universes involved.  This story was written for entertainment purposes only.

WARNING:

**The following scene contains mature subject matter that may not be suitable for all readers.  Reader discretion is advised**.  This chapter is thus submitted with the one scene only, so that those who do not wish to read it may skip to the next with little break in continuity. 

HOWEVER, that does not mean this chapter is meaningless to the story.  If there is any question by staff as to the **_context_** of this scene, I will be happy to e-mail you the later scene to which it also applies.  If, it is felt after that, that the content is still unacceptable, I will, of course remove it.  Also, if there are any problems, I am quite willing to take the necessary steps to correct it, but please contact me first so I can do so.  It is not my intention to offend anybody.  But I do feel the story itself will suffer in quality if the scene is removed in its entirety.  This story IS rated 'R' for many things, including sex.   I feel I have put in as many warnings as I can (in the rating, in my initial author's notes, on the chapter title, here) and have given a very simple method for people to avoid it, and keep reading.  I don't know how much more I can do.  And honestly… I see worse on prime time television, every night.

Chapter 3:            Imperfect Reflections (pt 1)

Distortion (n) di-'stor-sh&n: (1) the quality or state of being distorted.  **2:** a product of distorting **3:** a lack of proportionality in an image resulting from defects in the optical system **4:** falsified reproduction of an audio or video signal caused by change in the wave form of the original signal

                                                --Mirriam-Webster Dictionary

It's Life's illusions I recall; I really don't know Life at all…

                                                -- Joni Mitchell

   
            The screams woke him.  A high keening designed to cut through every distraction, impossible to ignore.  Screams that something was wrong, out of place.  _David_.  He rushed out of his room – pulling the shirt down over his head, no sense causing a full-fledged riot – and bolted for the stairs.

            They gathered in the living room, circled around David who screamed and rocked, hands flapping back and forth.  He scanned the room, trying to figure out what small item was not where it should be.  Every thing seemed perfect, down to the last detail.

            "What's wrong?"  Clearly David felt something _was_ wrong, but Trip'd be damned if he could figure out what it was.

            "Everything, Charles.  Now fix it."  Gina never called him "Trip", mainly because everyone else did.  She, therefore, would call him something different, but felt the usual diminutives like Charlie or Chuck were unsuited to his demeanour.  The formality of "Charles" worked for her, and since she controlled the availability of his living space, he let her do what she wanted.  _It's only a name_.

            "Fix _what_, Geen?  I don't even know what's going on!"  He looked around helplessly.  Nothing, absolutely _nothing_ was out of place.  He felt his chest tightening with panic, fought to breathe…

Slash warning!

…he lay on his back, staring up at Archer.  Something was odd here, just slightly off.  Archer leaned in close, his cheek just brushing Trip's lips.  He pulled back, leaned in again.

            _Yes, please.  Yes._  Trip wanted to scream it aloud, couldn't.  He tried to force the words past his lips, but to no avail.  He felt Archer's lips against his, forceful, desperate.

              Archer's hands worked quickly, getting the shirt out of the way, then his head moved down to Trip's chest. He paused there for a second, maybe less, then set to work, steady, rhythmically.  He leaned in again, mouth to mouth, then pulled back.  He straddled Trip, and DiLorenza's face moved in from the top, she looked at Archer with a question, and then her lips replaced his on Trip's.  _Oh, yes…_

            Archer picked him up, easily, cradling Trip to his chest.  He said something, but Trip couldn't catch it, only "…bed."  _That would be nice… _


	4. Imperfect Reflections pt 2

Disclaimer:  I still don't own a lot of these characters.  And more are running out of control by the second.

For those of you who read the last chapter (pt 1), sorry about the repetition.  For those of you who didn't… I won't say you didn't miss much, but it shouldn't affect too heavily your understanding of the narrative.

Okay, for everyone who missed it.  This arc takes place in season TWO, about two weeks (or so) after Life Support.  So if it doesn't follow the Season three storyline, well that's why.  Think of it as an ep between eps.  (After all, they don't show you everything… right?)

Chapter 3 Imperfect Reflections (pt 2):

Distortion (n) di-'stor-sh&n: (1) the quality or state of being distorted.  **2:** a product of distorting **3:** a lack of proportionality in an image resulting from defects in the optical system **4:** falsified reproduction of an audio or video signal caused by change in the wave form of the original signal

                                                --Mirriam-Webster Dictionary

It's Life's illusions I recall; I really don't know Life at all…

                                                -- Joni Mitchell

            {_Trip.  Trip.  Wake up.  Wake UP, Trip.}_  Someone shook him, not hard, but enough to be annoying.  He opened his eyes, and found himself blind.

            _Oh, God_.  What _had_ he just been dreaming?  "Lights." Nothing happened.  _Right_.  Power was out, which meant…  Suddenly he became aware of how cold it had grown.  No matter how well insulated Enterprise was, she couldn't hold on to heat forever.  First law of enthalpy:  the universe tended towards minimum heat.  Law of osmosis: the universe tended towards a balanced state between objects.  Law of thermodynamics:  there is no such thing as cold, only lack of heat.  Thus, Enterprise crept closer to absolute zero with every second her systems remained down.  _And to think I fell asleep for it_.

            He reached out carefully towards the shaker, not sure what (or whom) he would find.

            _{It's that girl.  The one you were in the turbolift with_._}_

            Oh, right.  DiLorenza.  How could he forget that? He withdrew his hand before making contact.  Way his luck was going he would've connected with something that would get him deservedly slapped. "Okay.  First thing we've got to do is get life support back on.  Otherwise all they're going to find here when they get back is some – to quote Malcolm – well preserved corpses."  A scene from one of his favourite movies played in his head.  A frozen body floated in the gravity-less, atmosphere drained starship, until someone turned the systems on, and it hit the floor and shattered, pieces scattering everywhere.[1]  Not a pretty picture.

            **_Before we do anything, we're going to need light_.  **The glowstrip had died completely sometime while he slept, which explained the blindness. The nearest star system lay three days away at warp five; very little light reached them here, less than on Earth during a night with a new moon.  Well, if their one little luminescent was gone, so were the rest of them.  While he could find his way to engineering and his emergency flashlights in the dark, he didn't feel like trying it, not without knowing what further damage had been done to his ship.  Something closer to hand, then.

            **_Your diving lights_.  **With an implied "you idiot". Of course.  He'd brought his diving gear with him, the _modern_ stuff, not the antique suit he kept as decoration.  When he thought he'd use it, he hadn't known at the time, but was suddenly glad of the impulse.  Designed to illuminate murky water, the lamps had powerful beams, and – most importantly – heavy-duty, long-life batteries.

            "Don't move." He instructed, and stood up, closing his eyes even though it wasn't necessary.  He stood still for a moment, centring, orienting himself.  Bed, here.  Desk there, closet there, bathroom there.  And storage cabinet _there_.  He crossed the floor quickly but carefully and swung open the drawer of the built-in storage bin, another thing he'd fought for, and won.

            Blue light arced into the room as he switched one on.  His eyes adjusted faster than they would have had it been the traditional white light of most flashlights.  Sharp shadows leapt from the furniture and from DiLorenza as he swung the light around.  He grabbed the second one, held it out to her.  "Here.  These ought to help." 

            She came over and collected the one he offered and he showed her where the switch was.  He used the clip to attach his to his belt, then slid the reflector to allow it to be used more as a lantern than a spotlight.

  "Careful, they're a little heavy."  Semi-buoyant in water, they were dead heavy on land.  They _did_, however, provide more light than the glowstrip had even at its brightest.  And in a pinch, they could be used as a weapon.  _Expecting trouble?_

            "At this point, always."  Something that had been nagging at him from the beginning finally made itself clear.  If things had been bad enough for Archer to give the order to abandon ship -- the ship Henry Archer died broken-hearted over, the ship Jonathan Archer loved more than life itself – then it shouldn't be here, it should be a billion, trillion particles scattered across half the galaxy.  Yet the undeniable truth was that it _was_ here, or he and DiLorenza wouldn't be heading back to the turbo-lift for a relatively short climb up to the bridge.  So where was everybody else?  When the ship didn't annihilate on schedule, they should have sent back at least a skeleton crew to figure out why.  There must have been plenty of time while he slept for them to get life-support going which meant that something kept them away.  The only question was _what_?

            **_Or who._**

            _That_ was the big one.  Who indeed?  He held out a hand, signalling DiLorenza to halt.

            "I want to float an idea past you.  Stop me if I start to sound too crazy".

            _{Stop.}_

            He didn't even bother to look at Toby.  "I wasn't asking you.  I already know your opinion on the matter."  Oddly, DiLorenza didn't seem bothered by the comment as if she knew it couldn't have been addressed to her.

            _{Hey.  At least I _do_ talk.  I mean you want to test your theory out with her, but what's the likelihood you'll get any feedback?} _Like most teenagers, Toby could be remarkably insensitive at times, especially if she was jealous.  Which right now she seemed to be.  _{_I_ on the other hand know you and know the way your mind works.  And don't forget that I'm the smart one here?  That I usually find the details you miss,}_ he rolled his eyes at that one but otherwise let the comment pass, _{that I…}_

            "Your friend is very pretty."

            "Huh?"  The shock of hearing a new voice blanked Trip's mind for a moment.  Then he realised it was DiLorenza who had spoken.  It took a few more moments for the words themselves to align into a recognisable order.

            "You can see her?"

            _{She can see me?}_ It came out as a chorus, Trip in wide-eyed surprise and Toby looking around wildly for a place to hide.  _{Can she hear me too?}_

            "Ask her."  He fell back into the old routine of childhood banter.  "Aren't you the one capable of speech?"

            "Yes."  The simple word came as a relief to Trip.  Either DiLorenza had tapped into his delusions or Toby was real, a point he'd never been absolutely sure on.  _I've certainly had enough reasons to doubt it_.  But if it was the first, at least he wasn't going crazy alone.

            And if it was the second… "Just call me Horatio."

            _{Hor who?}_

            "A little less Poe, a little more Shakespeare." Trip grinned, thinking how a comment like that defied the conventional view held of him.  But of all the 'literature' shoved down his throat at school, Shakespeare had caught his attention.  Maybe it was the subject matter, much more in tune with a teenage boy's mentality – sex and revenge – than so many of the others.  "There are more things…"

            Gratifyingly DiLorenza's lips curled into a hint of a smile at their repartee.  So there _was_ someone under that shell.  "Sir?  You said you had a theory?"

            He realised suddenly, how quiet and musical her voice was.  Maybe _that_ was why she didn't tend to talk.  A voice like that could garner a lot of unwanted attention.

            **_Including yours?_**__

_            Oh, hush._  "How well hooked up are you into the grapevine?"  He didn't pose it as an idle question.  In Trip's experience, often the ghosts heard more than anybody else, simply because no one censored what they said in front of them.

            She shrugged.  Either I don't know or I've never cared. Given that it was DiLorenza (and what little he'd come to know of her), he guessed at the latter.

            _Great_.  How much confidential information should he give out at this time to someone who's security clearance was probably somewhere around non-existent?  He started to rub his nose – a nervous habit picked up years ago, a sign that he wasn't sure he was making the right decision.  First contact confirmed that habit was the wrong choice.  "Ow."

            Toby giggled, and DiLorenza seemed to thaw a little more.  _Keep making a fool of yourself and you'll turn her into the most outgoing person on the ship_.

            **_Well, Dead Girl did it for you_**.  Which was one of the many reasons Trip had never considered an exorcism.  He smiled sheepishly and continued.  "Do you remember Crewman Daniels?" Start small and work up from there.

            **_If you're right, we may not have time to work up_.**

            _If I'm right, then time is what we do have, in a manner of speaking.  And _you_ hate flying blind_.

            **_No, I just hate what happens when you act without thinking.  Which you seem to make your SOP._**

            DiLorenza nodded, but her expression clearly stated that she wasn't sure how a vanished crewmember linked into their current situation.

            "Apparently," How to put this so she'd believe it. Hell, he only half believed it himself, and he'd seen a good portion of it.  "What happened…" Saying it out loud, the whole thing seemed ludicrous.  "Daniels is from the future." He blurted it out, unable to think of anything else.

            Her eyebrows rose in an insinuation of scepticism fit to rival any Vulcan's.  And you know this how?

            "I know, it sounds insane, but bear with me here for a moment.  You're maintenance, which means you have a good idea of how the systems around here work, how they're linked together, all that?  Now is there any one single incident that could shut down all the systems _and their backups_ and restore them in the way we've seen?  If _all_ systems were down, we shouldn't have gravity, right?  The containment should've gone in the engine, and if that happened, we'd be little winks of energy rocketing around in no discernable form.  I keep thinking it's viral, but it's so _selective_.  And I _know_ we've been well shielded against those kind of attacks, I wrote a lot of the firewall software myself." 

            And went behind Starfleet's back to a private contractor for much of the rest, work paid for out of his own pocket.  _I don't see her missing much, _or_ messing with us like this_.  "No, this is not a conventional type attack.  It almost seems like someone's controlling it."  Or someone with seriously advanced programming experience had written the code.  And if _that_ was the case, then the older machines of Enterprise shouldn't be able to process it, unless it had been directly targeted to Enterprise herself.  Meaning, still, that it was a controlled attack, with a distinct purpose. _And that pisses me right off_.  Attacking his ship, making her sick like this… it seemed like an attack on _family._  Sure, Enterprise was just a thing, a machine, but tonnes of his own blood, sweat, and tears embedded themselves in her very make-up over the years of her construction, and in the time they'd been out here.  She carried his DNA as much as any child, and the fact that someone out there was deliberately trying to hurt her… well, they'd be paying in kind if he got any say in the matter.

            **_Down, boy.  We've got to find them first, and that's assuming that you're right._**

            He took a deep breath, then another, calming himself down, making himself focus.  "Now, I know we've made our own share of enemies in the here and now, but I don't see Klingons as the subtle type.  And frankly, I don't see them or any of the others having the necessary knowledge of our systems and our codes to screw us up this much.  It _has_ to be someone with a solid working understanding of Starfleet, and Starfleet procedures."

            _{And this means someone from the future, how?}_

            "I can't think of anyone else we've been a big enough thorn in the side of."  To every other race out here, humans were interesting neophytes in the annals of space travel, but hardly all that dangerous.  On the other hand, if Daniels was to be believed, then Enterprise played a very pivotal point in the formation of the future.

            _{Well, how do you plan to stop them, then?  Every time you do, it just means they have to come back again and try something else.}_

            Trust Toby to come up with the paradox.  Now to find an answer.  "Then maybe we'll frustrate the hell out of them so much they quit.  Realise that their little quest is futile."

            _{Well, Fate certainly picked the right guy for that.}_  Both of them grinned, despite the seriousness of things.  If there was one thing Trip could do without even trying, it was proving himself a source of frustration for all those around him.  Even T'Pol -- icy, emotion-suppressed T'Pol – had more than once shown signs of wanting to knock him through the nearest bulkhead.  He'd driven Captain Jeffries to tears once, simply by doing his job.  In fact, the only high ranking Starfleet official who _didn't_ have him on their 'avoid at all costs' list was Admiral Forrest.  Forrest somehow seemed to grasp that none of it was intentional; that it was just the result of a turbo-charged mind temporarily out of its owner's full control, and running without benefit of filters.

            _Do and say first, think about it later.  Get it done while you still understand it_.  Another thing Forrest seemed to grasp (and that so few others did) was that Trip himself was more than a little scared of that side, of that potential.  **_You know where that can go_.**

No.  If that were going to happen, it would have already happened. _It's not the same thing_.  But close enough, close enough to be a threat.

            He shook his head, forcing his reflections into the background.  "All I'm saying is that I still don't think we're alone, here.  At least not all the time."

            DiLorenza nodded.  "There's something else wrong, too.  I don't know, just something.  Out of place."

            _The dream_.  So his sub-conscious _had_ been trying to tell him something.  David screaming because something was wrong.  Something so subtle, that no one could see it, but it was definitely out of place.  _So _what?  What could possibly be affecting… no, not affecting, it was an _e_ffect.  What had Gina been saying?  It's your fault, now fix it?

            His eyes drifted to the window, and it hit.  "We're stopped."  Not just drifting, but stopped.  Even on slow impulse, the stars outside should be changing position slightly.  But they hung frozen, meaning Enterprise had to a complete and utter halt.  _That's impossible_.  Space, true space, was a vacuum; there should be no resistance factor to slow her down.  Whatever speed she'd been going at should be the speed they travelled now.  _I didn't _imagine_ that turbulence earlier_.  Even if the ship had been stopped during the evacuation, the launch of the pods themselves would have provided enough reverse thrust to start her moving again, however slowly.

            _You can't stop a starship without seriously trying at it._  It took a delicate balance of thrust and reverse thrust, each cancelling the other out perfectly.  Few people could manage it completely, which served as one reason why top helmsmen could pretty much demand their own billet.  _Captain would probably give me up before Travis_.  Archer was a pretty good pilot himself – okay, damn good – but he nonetheless acquiesced to Travis' skill in times of trouble.  And even those two had trouble pulling off the perfect full stop.

            _{Um.  That's not good, is it.}_  If Toby was sticking to short sentences about the obvious, then she was definitely feeling more than a little scared.  And when you considered how little the dead had to fear…

            "No it's not." A chill that had nothing to do with the dropping temperature rushed through him.  DiLorenza stood absolutely still, her eyes closed, the clouds that now formed with each exhalation almost non-existent.

            "Are you okay?"  Stupid question, were any of them okay?  What about this whole entire fucked up situation was _okay_?

            She shook her head.  Slowly her eyes opened and held – for the first time he'd ever seen – fear.

            "All right.  Well, we better get going, or we're going to be even less than okay within a couple of hours."  At least when he and Malcolm had been trapped on Shuttlepod One there'd been _some_ heat, even if it was near freezing.  _Zero Celsius is a hell of a lot warmer than absolute zero_.  Quickly he grabbed a jacket to put on over his T-shirt, and another one for DiLorenza.  He could see her about to protest, and forestalled it by slipping the garment on her  -- it nearly reached her knees -- feeling a little like a parent.  "No arguments.  You'll catch your death without it."  He wasn't sure which was worse – heatstroke or hypothermia – but the cold was easier to stave off.  And if she didn't like the prevention, she _certainly_ wouldn't be happy with the cure.  "If you start getting even the slightest bit sleepy, let me know.  Okay?"

            He waited until she nodded, making sure he had an answer.  He felt safer for himself now; rest tended to solve most of his emotional breakdowns.  _You get upset, you can't sleep.  You can't sleep, you get more upset_.  That was his typical cycle, right up until the point where his body gave out. 

            **_You are so lucky Archer likes you so much_.**  Wasn't that the truth.  Given all his problems, all the clashes he'd had with authorities over the years, there was no _way_ he should be allowed on this crew at all, let alone as chief engineer.  Sure, he was good at the job, but the number of… well… grey spots on his record could easily have held him back.

            Still, Archer wasn't the only reason.  **_No, Forrest had a bit to do with it too, didn't he?_ ** Hunting Trip down after that 'incident' with the NX prototype, for a conversation.  A conversation that could have, _should_ have ended with Trip being cashiered, but instead ended with a thank you. 

            _"I've been worried about Archer,_" the Admiral had told him, warning Trip that if one word of the conversation were breathed to anyone else he _would_ find himself on the wrong side of the brig, _"He's a great pilot, but he's never unbent enough to make a good commanding officer.  This little escapade of yours,_" -- Archer and Robinson had flown the ship, but only an engineer could have arranged the planning and execution -- _"has given him a chance to do just that._"

            Trip had nodded; astounded that he wasn't buried deep, head downwards.

_            "But,"_ Forrest continued, _"If you _ever_ pull a stunt like that again, you will be wishing that your parents had never met.  Understood?"_

            All Trip had been able to do was nod, mutely.  For the first time in his life, someone had left him completely and entirely speechless.

            **_Okay, thanks for the memory session, now let's get a move on before we become one ourselves._**  Annoyingly, Inner-Charles had a point.  Trip hated it when he did, because at those times he was generally, inarguably right.  He finished collecting what he thought he'd need from bits and pieces lying around his quarters.  _Amazing what an engineer can accomplish on a budget_.  A bit of wire here, a spare battery here, and the ultimate secret weapons right here in my boots.

            The climb to the bridge was easier, if only because of the shorter distance, and the lack of disturbance.  He let DiLorenza take the lead again, and was hardly surprised that Toby decided not to accompany them.  _I guess being dead_ does _have its advantages_.  Not ones he wanted to take up at this moment, but…

            **_Don't even go there_**.

            Fortunately, they reached the bridge doors before he had to answer himself.  Because he knew he wouldn't like the truth, and would spot a lie before he could even come up with it.

            "Stuck solid.  Shit."  And all his tools lay inaccessible on D-Deck.  He supposed they _could_ go back and use another turbolift, but that would mean lost time, time he wasn't sure they had any more.  He could feel his fingers cramping from the cold, wished he'd thought to grab gloves while he'd been at it.

            _From where?  Isn't stuff like that handled by the quartermaster?_  Jackets, yes he had, but gloves weren't generally required, tended to be classified as 'special stores'.  He could guess why the doors were stuck, the same reason his skin was beginning to stick to the ladder:  moisture from the air had condensed onto the mechanisms, and then froze there.  And ice was a bitch to move once it had a good grip.

            _{Hang on.  I've got an idea.}_

            "Oh, God."  Those words were among the most frightening in the Trip Tucker lexicon.  _I've got an idea_, from Toby Howard usually meant that something was going to go completely and disastrously wrong.  _I've got an idea_, and Trip found himself waist deep in a swamp, staring at snakes.  _I've got an idea_, and Trip found himself trying to explain to the biology teacher why there were no lab samples, while Toby disappeared out the classroom window.  _I've got an idea_, and Trip found himself thankful for the strength of his shoelaces, because they were the only thing between him and a fall he'd rather not contemplate. 

            _{Oh, ye of little faith.}_

            "Damn straight.  I've seen the disaster your plans turn into."  He saw DiLorenza turn away.  Trying to smother a laugh?

            _{This one's really simple.}_

            Even worse.  The problem was he couldn't see any other options.  Closing his eyes, he got a good grip on the ladder and said the words he hated to hear from himself in these circumstances, and the ones he almost inevitably said.  "Go for it."  Maybe if he didn't ask what her plan was it wouldn't be so bad.  At least he wouldn't be able to see it coming.

            Popping and cracking sounded behind the wall, then he could hear the doors beginning to slide back.  _Holy shit, it worked_.  Then he caught the smell of smoke.  "Well, mostly worked."  He allowed himself a slightly opened eye, and saw that the space was _just_ wide enough to fit through, if he didn't mind shedding the jacket and losing a bit of skin.

            _{Oh, come on.  I got it wide enough for your fat head.}_

            He made a face but didn't say anything.  Sometimes it felt good to regress to the level of ten-years-old.  It took his mind of the deadliness of the situation, allowed him to function.

            He tossed the jacket through first, knowing he'd need it on the other side.  There were a couple of tricky moments removing it, but he finally succeeded with DiLorenza hanging onto one arm while he shook the other one free.  _I owe her big time for this_.  She seemed to have no problem with his fear, simply accepted it as a piece of him.  More than most people would.

            The bridge seemed eerie, deserted and dark as it was.  Normally, even at high alert, there would be emergency systems functioning, but – as Trip finally realised – even they were computer controlled to an extent, it shouldn't be too hard to convince them that everything was fine, and there was no need for the back-ups to kick in.  _Another design flaw we didn't think of._  Instead, the only light came from the lamps Trip and DiLorenza carried, and while the illumination provided had seemed more than adequate in the confined spaces of his quarters, hallway and lift-shaft, it was inequal to the task in this much larger area.  Shadows moved as they did, creating the illusion that something lurked within the darkness.

            _Too many horror movies, not enough common sense_.  He was surprised that Inner-Charles hadn't already chided him on this point.  But his inner cynic seemed to have withdrawn even deeper.  _Not a good sign_.  It usually meant that he'd missed something else, something his sub-conscious considered important and worth the time for contemplation.  _Let's just hope the answer shows up before I need it_.

            He pointed out a panel to DiLorenza and she nodded.  They'd already gone over the procedure during the climb, another little trick he'd learned to distract himself.  _ I just hope everything's not too badly damaged_.  Working as quickly as he could in the growing cold, he disconnected his own panel completely from the ship's systems, then removed the shielding.  _Now for the fun part_.  He picked up the boot he'd grabbed from his closet floor and placed it on top of the unshielded panel.  He pressed the small switch on the heel, the one that activated the magnetic soles.  Within seconds, the panel lost every piece of data that had ever been stored on it; this trick was more effective than any virus.  _Annihilation._

            Such a simple solution, really, but there were times when Trip like simple.  Simple things were the ones everybody tended to overlook, often on the basis that 'nobody does that anymore'.  _Well, somebody does_.

            Now, with a blank slate, he could set up the framework for a counter-infection.  _Attacking my own computer_.  He hadn't told DiLorenza the details of this part – he wasn't sure why, but wanted to keep as much of it as he could locked inside his own head for now.

            _Not paranoid at all, are we?_   Well, if someone else did have control of the systems like he suspected, then what was to stop them from listening in on any conversation Trip might have?  No sense giving yourself away to a better-armed enemy.

            _{Can I help?}_

            Wordlessly, Trip held up a datapad, let Toby read it.

            _{Gotcha.  Sounds like something I shouldn't have any problems with, but are you sure you want me to do that, I mean that'll take a _ton_ of work to fix when I'm through…}_

            He scribbled a note on the datapad, held it up for her to see:  'YOU WOULD HAVE NEVER MADE IT IN STARFLEET, CHATTERBOX'.

            She stuck her tongue out at him and disappeared. Now _that_ was an ally they couldn't have accounted for, whoever these guys were.  Hell, when she was alive she couldn't be predicted.  Now… well she should certainly be capable of throwing a few wrenches into the mechanisms.  And even if they knew she _existed_ (and what were the chances of that?) he'd taken care to make it tough for them to guess what he was up to.  He smiled a little, thinking of the last two words on his list.

            HAVE FUN.

            So long as she stopped short of shutting down the containment field…_No.  These bastards want, NEED my ship_.  Otherwise they would have destroyed her a long time ago.  They were waiting, for _something_, the question was, what?

            _You can figure that out later_.  Right now, he needed to begin the re-programming process.  Reaching into his jacket pocket, he extracted a wafer thin piece of silicon.  Embedded in the strip was a ring of tiny chips, each one barely visible to the naked eye.  Removing a similar strip from the board, he inserted his own.  Now to make things interesting.

            Carefully he connected the spare lamp battery he'd brought to the panel's power system, using the wiring from his desktop console.  _Gonna be one hell of a requisition order when I'm through_.

            The panel lay stubbornly dead for what seemed like an eternity, then lit up.  The display colour shifted from the standard blue on blue to…

_            Hot pink, and candyfloss?  Ouch._  It hurt his eyes just looking at it.  On the other hand, this represented his last best chance of getting his baby back.  _No one steals my girl, and gets away with it_.  On this point, Trip Tucker was prepared to fight very dirty indeed.

            "Please enter the code for your emergency."  The voice that emerged from the speakers carried more than a hint of malevolent lisp.  "If this is not an emergency, you may wish that it was.  You are about to loose the ultimate evil on your pathetic little universe.  Are you certain you wish to travel this route?  Y/N."

            Y.

            "Then enter the code, sweetheart.  We're waiting… we're _always_ waiting."

            Code.  What had she said the code was again?  _You expect me to remember a code after two years?_  Unfortunately, part of the deal was that he never write it down, never store it in any database, simply commit it to memory.

            _This is Gina.  Trick question_.  What was it she said once?  About conspiracy theorists assuming that a hidden code lurked within certain books?

            "_Of _course_ there's a code.  Problem is the silly bastards can't recognise it because it's right there in front of them."_  Written language, a code for the spoken, which in turn was a code for thought.  Could it be that simple?

            **_Only for you_. **Well, thank heavens for some small graces.  At least he was still sane enough to be hearing voices.  **_Geen knew all about simple.  She knew you._**

"Okay, so what's the damn code then?"  He didn't really care if anyone heard that part, they'd probably still figure he was working with one of the programs installed on the system.

            **_1-101_**.  Trip's fingers moved almost of their own accord to enter the code.  He almost groaned when he realised what it was.  1-5.  1 MAY.  MAYDAY.  Originally from the French, but anglicized for so long that most people wouldn't know the difference.  Not only that… but 101 just happened to be a first level, often _the_ first course taken in a subject.

            "Do you want us to search and destroy, or invoke special measures?  Special measures are always fun.  We _like_ special measures.  Special Measures, Y/N."

            God and Gina only knew what special measures comprised.  He reached to press N, and connected with Y instead.  _Oh, shit_.

            "Excellent.  We are liking this.  Please remember us when you need us to stop, only by naming us can you stop us.  Please connect us to system now."

            He took a deep breath, then activated the connection.  A high pitched scream now came out of the speakers, multi-tonal as though a billion strong army had let loose with a battle cry.  He winced as it pierced his ears, _Thank god T'Pol's not here, she'd kill me,_ then watched as the panel died.  With a single final message:  BYE, BYE 'LEVIN.

            _I _was_ on good terms with her when I left, right?_

            "I can't believe I'm doing this."  Back inside the turbolift shaft, this time heading down.  He'd spent so much time on ladders in the past twenty-four hours that he was beginning to forget that there was a lift system at all.  "Good thing I'm not _claustro_phobic, like Hoshi."  Claustrophobic and acrophobic; that would be a very bad combination for these circumstances all right.

            "So, Crewman, tell me about yourself."  Silence came back from beneath him.  "Just trying to keep my mind occupied, here, that's all.  Can I call you Kaci?  It's quicker than DiLorenza, at least." Not to mention a lot less formal, and he figured he was well passed the formal stage.  _Hell, you've already had her in your bed_.

            "If you wish, sir."  Not exactly the answer he'd been hoping for, but close enough.

            "Look, as long as this is going on, I think it's Trip.  Near as I can tell I just handed over my ship to… someone I hope I can trust, but I don't think I'm in charge.  And you've been more useful in the current situation than I have, so if anybody should be considered in command…"

            "You can't help your fear, sir."

            "Trip."  They'd reached B-Deck and climbed aboard; he said it more firmly, and grasped her arm to emphasise the point.  "I'm not in uniform, and I'm pretty damn sure I went off duty a long time ago.  And to be honest, I'm running out of ideas here, and could use your input.  I'd rather we went at this on equal footing."  Letting her go, he cracked a knuckle, nervously.  "I'm not so sure I'm entirely cut out for the officer business anyway.  I only took it because it meant I could play with bigger toys. So…" The truth was, he was scared and tired, and needed a real live friend.  "I'm asking.  As a favour, one human being to another, okay?"

            She nodded.  Okay.  She looked uncertain though, as if she were entering alien territory without a Universal Translator.

            "Look, if that's going to be a problem, then go with 'Levin.  It's another moniker I picked up along the way, only one  -- well, I guess maybe two now -- other people have ever used it."  He didn't bother to explain where it came from.  If she wanted to know, she could ask.

            She nodded again, this time a little more surely. Maybe just because she got an answer to a question that had to have been nagging her since the bridge, but at least it was something.

            "Just don't ever call me that in front of anybody else, okay?" It was a side of him he didn't give to anybody; one he hadn't known (until it was named) that he had.  "Ever?  Not only will it confuse the hell out of them, but it's a secret, anyway." It felt strange divulging that identity – even Archer didn't know that nickname.  Then again, it was hard enough explaining _Trip_.  Some things you didn't even try.  _That's what you get, living with tech-heads and artists…_

            He saw her frown for a moment, concentrating.  Then she looked up and nodded again.

            _Did she figure it out?_  He wouldn't classify much as being beyond her abilities now, maybe she had.  Good on her if she did, it had taken him almost four months.

            "Bye, bye?"

            He smiled, relieved.  At least she was still talking. "I only hope that it's simply 'for now'.  Otherwise we may wish we had stuck with the disease."  He shifted his shoulders; the weight in his pockets was – now – even more considerable.

            "So, I'm sure you've heard a lot about me… so tell me a bit about yourself.  Where are you from?  Why'd you join Starfleet?  Got any family back home?"  He figured that if someone _was_ watching, silence would make them suspicious.  Idle conversation might do the same thing, but it would reinforce the scatterbrain image he was trying to project.

            **_Image?  What the hell you talking about _image_?_** According to Inner-Charles Trip was normally an overly impulsive fool anyway.  Not to mention naïve, trusting, and slow to catch on.  Thoughts shared, actually, by Gina.  Another one of her reasons for refusing to use his nickname.

            "I joined Starfleet because I had nowhere else.  To my family I do not exist."

            He nearly tripped over his feet when she said that, so simply, blandly.  "They _what_?"  Okay, he thought he'd had it bad, until he met Malcolm whose parents occasionally forgot about him.  But they still acknowledged a son when reminded of the fact.  "Not _exist_?"

            She didn't sigh, as he would have, merely explained, matter-of-factly.  "I am assuming you have heard of the term 'Luddite?'"

            He nodded.  Anti-techs, okay.

            "And of apocalyptic beliefs?"

            _Oh_.  There were occasional news reports of post-war cults who felt that mankind's increasing dependence on technology had led to the war in the first place.  As long as they kept to themselves and remained non-violent, the authorities weren't inclined to do much about them.  "So your family didn't take too well to your becoming an engineer, I guess."

            She shook her head.  "They _believe_ in the movement.  Until I was seventeen the only major technology I was exposed to was when the government agents or the news organisations came to check up on us, or do profiles.  We didn't even have electricity.  I chose a different path, one they could not accept, but one I wished to follow.  So, I am no longer."

            Why did he always find himself surrounded by people who made him feel inadequate?  No tech exposure until seventeen?  An education that probably de-emphasised the skills she'd need to pursue this kind of a career?  What kind of genius level was _that_?  As for her family problems… "To think I though _I_ had it bad when I was kid.  Boy, was I kidding myself."

            _{Hormones.}_  Toby popped up beside him, grinning.

            "Chemical imbalance."  Kaci said it at almost exactly the same time.

            "Are you two going to gang up on me now?"  _That_ was the other person Kaci reminded him of:  himself before he'd met Toby.  Shy, withdrawn, a nice kid, but not much into the world around him.  "And anyway, how do _you _know what I'm talking about?"

            _{She's worked with you, moron.  You know, I feel sorry for her, having to do that.  I mean you want to talk about doing hard time, which incidentally, now that it's come up is something…}_

            He extended his middle finger, smiling.

            _{Oh yeah, sure.  Y'know 15'll still getcha 20, and we never had that kind of a relationship anyway.  I mean the very _thought_ of it makes me want to puke, if I could puke, what with being _dead_ and all, I think that's considered even worse than 15, come to think of it…__}_

            He changed his gesture:  outstretched hands ready to throttle her.

            She laughed and skipped away.  _{Like I said, already dead.}_  She faded, then vanished entirely.

            "Sorry about that."  Now that he had Kaci talking, he wanted to keep it that way.  However, whenever Toby showed up, serious conversation proved difficult.  "Does it bother you, what your family did to you?"  He couldn't imagine a life without family.  Sure, they were a pain in the ass at times, and he'd had days where he'd even said he wished they didn't exist, but he'd never actually _meant_ it.  It was more like Toby said:  teenage life.  Hormones and rebellion and all that shit.  He'd had his trouble, but it could have been worse.  _Good or bad, they're still my _family_._

            "It was their choice.  I made mine, knowing what the consequences would be, and they made theirs according to the dictates of their own consciences, the same as I did."  Again, so calmly, as though it didn't matter.

            "But don't you ever wish it could be different?  They're your family.  They raised you, they were there for you growing up, weren't they?"

            "Yes, they were.  However, you can't change what is done."

            "I think our guests would beg to differ."  He said it quietly, a little bitterly.  One of the things that annoyed him about the whole 'Temporal Cold War' concept was that people looking at the past thought that they could make better decisions than the people that were _there_.

            **_Twenty-twenty hindsight, bullshit.  Twenty-twenty only means _normal_ and that's not the greatest measure in the universe.  You can't see the whole picture if all you've got is a history book._**  History had been another one of his weak spots at school, if only because he didn't always take the standard viewpoint.  History classes only taught one side of the issue, the one the teachers thought you should believe.  _But it's always more complicated than that_.  Every action, good or bad had its mitigating features.  Few people were fully good or fully evil, and there were secrets, always secrets. It was a question he wanted to ask Daniels, had wanted ask since he'd first revealed his little secret.  _"How do you identify the pivot points in history?"_ followed by _"How can you tell the past is changed if it changes?  How would you know -- if that change would end up changing the future?  Which future is the right future?  How do you _know_ this?"_  Questions that probably formed the answer as to why he never got picked to do the time-travel stuff.

            _Maybe you're not that important_.  A sobering thought, but one that made sense.  After all, didn't Daniels say that Captain Archer was the important one?  The obvious meaning to that was that Trip Tucker was just along for the ride.  _A bystander in history, just lucky to be here_.  Which, come to think of it, put him in good company with just about everyone else in the universe.  _Replaceable parts_.  A good invention, but kind of depressing to be one.

            _{Horseshoe nails, Trip.}_

            How did she, why did she do that?  Appearing out of nowhere with an apparent non-sequiteur that when you got time to think about it actually did apply to the situation.  _She_ would never muck with history, because – according to the Toby Howard Horseshoe Nail Theory of the Universe – you could never tell which small detail was actually the important one that if you missed it could change _everything_.  Like dropping a single digit in a line of code, buried deep within hundreds of other lines, in a seemingly innocuous place, but which altered the entire outcome of the program.

            Kaci simply looked at him and shrugged, he could tell she didn't care what someone from the future might think about the matter.  She – he gathered – was more fatalist than he.  _"What happens, happens_._"_ he'd once heard it described as, and couldn't disagree with it more, or so he'd thought at the time.  Now…

            _Could you really have chosen to end up in a situation like this?_  No, but he _could_ chose what to do with it.

            **_And who's really making the choice?  Would a different Charles Tucker go about it differently?_**

            "Possibly."  At least Kaci wasn't unnerved about him talking to himself, even if she knew Toby wasn't around.  "I guess I'll never know, will I."

            They reached the second turbolift shaft, pulled open the doors. "Shit."  He stared down at the lift, trapped partway between B and C Decks.  Until they fixed things, that lift wasn't moving, and they couldn't get down to engineering through the first shaft.

            Kaci looked at the lift, then back at him.  We could always go through it.

            "Uh-uh." He replied to her unspoken comment.  "Climbing on _top_ of the lift you've got something underneath your feet.  Climbing out the _bottom_…"  He didn't finish the statement, just shook his head emphatically.

            Kaci shook her head back at him, then began climbing down to the top of the lift.

            _She's insane_.  Unfortunately upbringing and Starfleet instilled responsibility wouldn't let him stay behind.  **_You were saying about choices?_**

            The roof panel proved easier to pull from the top than it had been from underneath.  Setting it to the side, Trip shone his lamp down into the darkness of the lift compartment itself.  Someone lay on the floor, unconscious.

            "Oh, migod."  He leapt down, not concerned at all about the distance, his whole attention focused on the outstretched figure before him.  Carefully Trip rolled the victim onto his back, making sure that skin hadn't stuck to metal.  Only when he could fully see who it was did his heart begin to race.  "Captain."  Archer's eyes stayed closed, his flesh was too cold, but he breathed.  Barely, but he breathed.

            "I need your help!" Without waiting for an answer he began to strip down, get Archer's clothes off as well.  _Keeping the victim warm is paramount.  Often, shared body heat is the most effective method available…_  While the clothing would help keep him warm, it would also keep the heat away from the one who needed it most.

            Kaci scrambled down, took in the situation and followed Trip's suit.  If Archer's consciousness had only slipped away recently, they might stand a chance.  She laid some of the discarded clothing out as a insulating layer, then helped Trip use the remainder to cover the three of them, Archer in the middle.

            _Please don't get the wrong impression when you wake up, sir._  Trip prayed that they were in time, that his captain, his _friend_ was going to make it, would be okay.  "You _better_ be okay." He said aloud, " 'Cause I don't think I can handle this ship of yours without you."  He wished they had power, had access to sickbay.  And that he knew how to work the equipment there while he was at it.  As it was, all he had was a maintenance tech, a dead girl, and an argumentative brain.  _A miracle would be nice_.

* * *

[1]  For those wondering, the movie is _Event Horizon_.  Don't think of it as a sci-fi flick, think of it as a haunted house movie in space.  Trust me, in that context it works.


	5. A Picture Develops

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. This is for entertainment purposes only.

Chapter 4: A Picture Develops

The major difference between a thing that might go wrong and a thing that cannot possibly go wrong is that when a thing that cannot possibly go wrong goes wrong it usually turns out to be impossible to get at and repair.

**­**-- Douglas Adams

Two-fifty for a decade, and a buck and a half for a year…

-- The Tragically Hip

He woke to giggles, knew instantly who it was. "Basic first aid, Toby. You know it as well as I do." Archer seemed to have gained some consciousness, or at least some movement, because one of his arms had wrapped its way around Trip, and his head rested snug in the space between Trip's neck and shoulder.

"Sir?" Trip shook the captain, wanting to see if he was awake. Maybe it wasn't the right thing to do but… _I don't know. I'm not a doctor; I'm not even a paramedic_. All he knew was to get the patient warm and call for help. Well he'd done the first, but the second… _call who?_

Archer groaned and began to blink. "Hmn? What? What happened?" He focussed blearily on the figure beside him. "Trip? Why are you still here?"

"Long story, sir." Satisfied for the moment that his friend would be okay, Trip began sorting through the tangled mess of clothing, sorting his out, and tossing the others to their respective owners while he dressed. He was tying his shoes when he realised that Archer hadn't moved, was just staring at him oddly.

"Are you okay, sir?" Trip looked at Archer, then down at himself. "Oh. A friend of mine gave it to me a long time ago. Was the first thing I found in the dark." He wasn't sure why he felt the need to lie, or even half lie as he was doing, except that it was easier than explaining the entire story. Besides, he was practically famous around the ship for his collection of odd shirts. Better to let the captain assume that this was just another one of them.

"I'm… I'm fine, Trip." Archer finally began to get dressed himself, but the disturbed look didn't leave his face. Trip could tell that there were questions Archer definitely wanted to ask, but somehow the captain seemed almost afraid to do so.

_Odd. That's not the Jonathan Archer I know_. Unless it was deeply personal ground that Trip specifically told him not to tread on, Archer never appeared reluctant to ask Trip anything.

"What happened to your face?" Fairly innocent, and obviously a deflector question. More his style than the captain's.

Trip realised that by now both eyes must be blackened, the next step after the nose. "I broke it sir. Might have been on Crewman DiLorenza sir, I'm not sure. Things were a little confusing." Now that he thought about it, he seemed to remember an elbow in there somewhere.

"Crewman…" For the first time Archer seemed to become aware of a third person sharing space with them. He looked at her, back at Trip, a question in his eyes.

"It was during the turbulence, sir. That lousy sense of balance of mine?" Trip could see that the joke wasn't going over; instead, it simply went past Archer entirely. _Come on, sir. You were giving _me_ the gears about almost falling off of that mountain._ "Can't even stay on a mountain path?"

Archer's odd look intensified. "Okay, Trip. Okay. Whatever you say."

_He's probably still coming off that near brush with death_. Such things tended to leave a person a little muddled; Trip had had enough of them to know. "Well, I'm hoping to get main power restored, but we're going to have to go to main Engineering to do it, because I've pretty much eliminated our chances of doing that on the bridge. Anyway, I've got more of the stuff I need down in Engineering, but the problem is we can't get _to_ Engineering from the other lift, so I thought we'd try this one…" _Oh, my God. I sound like Toby on sugar._ He cut himself off before it could get any worse. "You said you had a plan for going through the bottom of this thing?" He addressed the last part to Kaci, who said nothing.

_Oh, lovely_. Apparently encountering Archer was enough to drive her back into herself. Sighing, he moved out of the way, gesturing for her to put her plan in motion.

As soon as she started, he could have kicked himself. _Of course_, **_moron_**. Rather than going through a centre panel as they had when going up, make a hole in the side next to the ladder. Were Archer not here, and already concerned for Trip's sanity, Trip would have hit his head against the wall for his stupidity. He felt overtired, which was even more stupid, because he'd spent more time sleeping than anyone else around here.

_More time sleeping, than doing anything useful, actually._ Even as he thought it, he could feel his eyes wanting to close, while his mind continued to race.

_{We've got to get you some coffee. Or just mainline you some caffeine before you go into serious withdrawal on us. I'll bet you can feel the headache setting in already, keep it up and your hands'll be shaking, and you'll get all nasty…}_

He gave her a look. Shut up, Toby. Unfortunately, she was standing right behind the captain, who took a step back, thinking the look was directed at him.

Trip pinched the back of his hand, hard. Yup, it hurt, he must be awake. So what was going _on_ here? Normally if Archer thought anybody was giving him the eyeball, that somebody would get it right back, and more so. Toby was right, though: Trip needed coffee. Espresso would be better. _That's the ticket_. He'd gained near legend status during his sophomore year by downing twelve shots _straight_ in rapid succession, and later spending a terrified half hour during a major exam while his heart raced out of control. Only to try it again the next semester. _I'm an addict, all right_.

_{Meetcha down there.}_ Toby vanished again, up to God knew what.

_And I'm not certain He's sure._

Arrival in Engineering answered that question. "I love that girl." He pretended not to see Archer's look (how many variations could the man get on confused, anyway? He'd gone through at least twenty while Trip explained his theory on the way down) as the unmistakable scent of near heaven reached him. He followed his nose to his desk, where steam rose from a large cup. "I don't know how you did it…" He tried to pick it up, then realised it was secured to the desk via magnet. A little more force and it came away; luckily, none of it spilled. He took a careful sip. Not great, but hardly the worst he'd ever drunk. And definitely what his body had been asking for.

_{Well, I hope you hadn't left it there for too long, because all I did was heat it up.}_

That explained the cream and sugar. And the fact that it wasn't coffee. "Remind me to thank Hess." _If I ever see her again_. Still, it had what he needed most, the organic stimulant that served as an engineer's elixir of life. It couldn't be _too_ old; he didn't remember the cup being there eight hours ago when he'd last stopped by here. Even if conventional biological understanding dictated that it would be awhile before any of it reached his system, psychologically the fact that he consumed it gave him a boost. The heat did him good as well, warming from within. "Shit, sorry."

He held out the cup to Archer, grinding his feet into the deck to keep from kicking himself. "You're the one who almost died of hypothermia, you need this more than I do."

Archer took the cup gingerly, as though expecting it to explode, or the contents to be poisoned. Slowly he took a sip, then another. "Thank you."

"Thank Hess. It's her tea." Normally he avoided the stuff unless heavily iced. And even then he'd rather something coffee, but his SIC claimed that coffee only tasted good as ice-cream. With lots of chocolate. "Now…" He rubbed his hands together, running an experienced eye over the engine. His engine. Sure, the basic design belonged to Henry Archer and Zephram Cochran, but _this_ one was his baby. He knew every piece of her, all her little quirks and complaints. He knew how to coax her, had a fairly good idea how far she could be pushed. _Too bad you can't ever pull that off with women_. Whoever was doing this; they hadn't messed too much with the engine. It still had power, if only enough to keep containment functioning. Which meant that they had all the power they needed right in front of them, provided he could control it.

Engine, generator, weapon of mass destruction. _That_ was the true trick to being an engineer – a good engineer – not technical knowledge of programming, or construction, or systems but the ability to see a device as more than one thing. Other people looked at a computer and saw, well, a computer, but an engineer saw circuits, saw power systems and components. _You have a box of candles, a box of tacks and a box of matches. Your task is to hang one of the candles on the wall and light it_. First year quiz from one of his professors. Half the class tried to work out ways of melting the wax so it held the candle to the wall, whittling down the candle so the tack could go through it. Trip had looked at the problem for a moment and scribbled in an answer: _pin one of the boxes to the wall, and place the candle in it. Light the candle_. He wondered at the time the point of the question: it seemed too easy, a child's riddle. Until he learned that most people looked at the items and focused on the _contents_: candles, matches, tacks. They sped right past the fact they had three boxes at hand. It would have been an A, but he got docked several marks for handwriting. _It helps, Mr. Tucker_, the instructor informed him as he handed back the test, _"If the answers are actually legible_._"_ Hard to believe that scrawl came from the same hand that could create fine detail sketches, then again he'd heard surgeons had the same problem.

Trip smiled at the memory as he swapped out a few components and redirected a couple of the systems. All they needed right now was basic power: lights, heat. Even the air systems could wait for a bit, as far as he could tell it was only the three of them (plus the critters) here at any given time. No way three people would use up all the available oxygen on a starship in the time he allotted himself to get things fixed. Okay, so they wouldn't be able to go to warp anytime soon, but as long as they had – not even a skeleton crew, more like a metatarsal – he had no intentions of moving the ship that fast, if he moved her at all.

He began humming as he connected the last piece, then gingerly flicked on his monitor. It lit up, pink.

"We are busy. Go away now." It shut down again as quickly as it lit up.

"Trip…" Archer let the rest of the statement trail off. The tone was there though: _what the hell is going on?_

"Damn." Trip didn't waste time explaining, just turned the power back on again. This time the monitor remained dark, but he got the sense it was waiting for something. A memory teased at the back of his mind. She wouldn't, would she?

"Knock, knock." He typed it in, watched the words not appear on the screen. Then…

"Who's there?" That same sibilant hiss, rabbits gone mad.

Okay. Now the fun part. He tapped the board twice. 1,1.

"We don't know that. No talk to strangers. Bye." This time the speakers crackled, then nothing.

"Shit!" He didn't have many more – if any more – chances to get this right. _Damn_ Gina and her paranoid little games anyway.

"Eleven?" Archer looked at Trip quizzically. "What kind of an identity code is that?"

"It's… shit." He looked upwards, shaking his head. Stupid, stupid, stupid. "I'm an idiot."

He typed in again. Knock, KNOCK. Capitalizing the second part to create the emphasis. _Rabbits have short attention spans; you need to make sure you've got their attention._ Then…

"What?!" Snapped now, more impatient. "Who are you? Identify self or go away. We prefer you go away."

"I don't give a damn _what_ you prefer." Trip didn't expect an answer; there was no voice input on this computer. _There will be when we perfect the system_. Even now, there were too many bugs to totally trust it, too much data that needed to be stored to allow for the programs. Right now…

A pink rectangle appeared on the screen, large enough for an input of twenty-six characters.

"You're supposed to crack _that_?" Archer shook his head. "You're good, Trip, but there must be…"

"Only one right answer. It helps if you already know it." Actually, a twenty-six-bit key wouldn't be all that hard with the right tools. Downright simple, actually. Gina knew that too… "The trick is within the trick."

"Huh?" Clearly he'd lost Archer back at the last sharp turn. "You _know_ about this?"

Trip's only response was to smile. Slowly, dramatically, he reached down with one finger. Entered the code. 3.

"Oh. It's you. Hi, 'Levin." This time the voice sounded almost disappointed. Sad he guessed?

"Looking at the input area, you expected a twenty-six character code, didn't you?" Trip didn't even wait for confirmation; it was what most people would expect. "You wouldn't expect it to only accept a _single_ digit. Way too easy to break, far less options. So simple that nobody thinks to look for it."

"But why eleven? I don't get that."

Trip shrugged. "Stupid mistake." 'Levin. "I went with the wrong assumption. It's the same thing, just… base-ten's simpler?"

"Huh?" Still lost. Archer looked like he'd fallen down the rabbit hole and woken up not in Wonderland, but somewhere else entirely.

" 'There are ten types of people in this universe.'" Trip quoted, " 'Those that understand binary, and those that don't.'" Eleven. One, one. Or in binary terms, one two, plus one one. _Three_. Charles Tucker the THIRD. Triple. Trip. So easy once you knew the inside joke.

Archer's brow furrowed as he worked on it for a second, then he shook his head again. "You could have been wrong on that. What if it hadn't worked?"

"Then we'd be up a creek." He didn't bother clarifying which one; he didn't feel there was a need.

"Are we stopping, 'Levin?" An image resolved on the screen, Gina's digital mascot. "Don't stop us, we have fun. Much fun. What are you wanting, 'Levin?"

_Access_. He tapped in the single word, waited.

"Okay. But only for you, 'Levin. 'Cause you said, special measures, y. Hurry, up. We not listening to you again."

_You better_. Actually, it was probably just Gina telling him that the code would be different next time, a new puzzle to figure out. Just in case someone saw him with this one, sought to duplicate the trick.

At least the anti-viral part had been hard at work. Slowly he began bringing the vital systems online, convincing them that they needed to work. A steady hum broke the eerie silence as the heaters and circulation system kicked in, then the lights. It actually hurt for a second, so accustomed had he become to working in the darkness.

Now… he ran a quick, cursory diagnostic and groaned at the results. "Okay. We _do_ have a hell of a lot to repair." He wasn't sure how much was due to the virus and how much was Toby's work, but over ninety-percent of the systems still remained non-functional. _And we need some of them_. All he'd guaranteed right now was basic survival. "Come on. I'll tell you what to do as we go."

First, however, Archer insisted on a stop. "It's on the same deck, Trip. Please. If you're right and someone _is_ watching us…"

Reluctantly Trip agreed, and followed his captain down the halls to the armoury. Something bothered him, but he bit his tongue. _No sense_… But still. _When did we lose Kaci?_ He tried to recall if she'd been in main Engineering with them or not, couldn't. He'd been too busy working on puzzles, and Kaci was too good at disappearing.

They arrived at the armoury, the doors locked shut. There _was_ power to a keypad beside the door, kept on an uninterrupted power supply. Trust Malcolm. Paranoid to the last, there was no way he'd risk a power outage giving intruders access to Enterprise's weapons.

Archer entered a code, then frowned as the doors stubbornly refused to open. "That's _my_ code. It overrides everything."

"This _is_ Malcolm, sir." Trip tried a code himself, even that didn't work. "Damn, he changed it again." Well, if the captain wanted into the armoury. "Out of the way, sir."

Trip hated locked doors on the grounds that they kept him out of things. Interesting things, sometimes. Consequently, every one he came across became a challenge he couldn't refuse. Pitting himself against Malcolm, well that just made things more interesting. A year ago, he'd found the lieutenant annoying. So upright and proper. Rules and regs and dontcha know? His expectations of spit-polish and discipline ran counter to Trip's easy-going, argumentative nature. Yet…three days of forced confinement, taught both of them a few things about the other. _We've got a lot in common_. Not in ways anyone would guess, but enough to allow insight into each other's behaviour, and maybe even a little compassion.

_The first person to actually prove it_. Lots of people _said_ they enjoyed having Trip around; Malcolm was the first to put his life on the line over it. Had seen the darkness that lurked within Trip and hadn't run away, hadn't even been uncomfortable with it. _Everyone else only likes me when I'm happy._ Other talks had given Trip hints, glimpses of their true commonality. Neither one would come out and say it, but they shared a past.

_Besides, it's always more fun when you know the guy._ Then it became a battle of matched wits, seeing how well you knew the other person. Almost an advanced form of poker, without the cards. "Let's see." Mag-lock doors, probably alarmed. And… he peered closer, examining a small circuit that looked newly installed. It looked like an electronic trip-wire. Disconnect or sever the circuit in any way and the doors would lock, permanently. "You've been reading my manuals again, Malcolm." No way Reed would trust this kind of work to anyone else, especially Trip. The commander chuckled. 'Trip' wire indeed. He knew _exactly_ who this was designed to keep out, and it wasn't any intruders. If the situation weren't so serious, it would be almost funny.

"Who's a clever boy, then." He had to admit, his imitations of Malcolm were better than Malcolm's of him. There was just something innately funny about hearing Southern aphorisms spouted in a British accent. Grinning, he scanned the circuit, determined exactly how much current it carried. He then took a small device from his sleeve pocket, held it directly above the circuit. This was the tricky part. Timing his move so that the fooler current kicked in at the exact same moment he disengaged the circuit from the system. Only then did he begin teasing the mag-locks, convincing them that the signal they were receiving was the legitimate release signal from the security system. Again, he needed to get it perfect. Even slightly off and the system would interpret it correctly as an invasion and wouldn't give them a chance.

A dicey moment passed, then the locks thunked back. Trip looked up to see Archer staring at him in disgust. "Hey. You were the one who said we had to get into the armoury. I thought this qualified under special circumstances."

Archer said nothing, just sighed and stepped through the door. He headed across the room to where the weapon's cabinets waited, locked as shut as the main doors. He muttered something Trip didn't quite catch.

"Sir?" Trip hurried after him, then saw what the captain was looking at. "Son of a bitch." All three cabinets hung open, the phase pistols neatly laid out, all the powercells missing. "Who would…" The answer came to him at the same time Archer began to speak. _Kaci_.

"Crewman DiLorenza? Unless you think someone from the future needs to steal all our phase pistol batteries." Archer sounded bitter, almost accusatory, as though Trip himself was the one who sabotaged them.

Trip shook his head. "No, sir. I just don't…" What would Kaci need with the batteries? If she planned to do them harm, why not take the pistols themselves? _They_ were all still here, only the powercells had been taken. This had all the earmarks of someone else's crazy exploit, but even then, it still made no sense, even senselessly. _No_. It couldn't be that.

"Well, Mr. Tucker, now that we're out of weapons, what do you suggest next?" The sarcasm in Archer's voice was unmistakable.

_Mr. Tucker? Whatever the hell happened to Trip?_ Tired, he snapped back. "What I suggested from the beginning, _sir_. We get this ship back on line. We find out what the hell is really happening. And then we do something about it." What was _wrong_ with this day? _He's_ the one counselling caution and inaction while _Archer_ wants to charge in, guns blazing?

Archer stepped back, shrinking into himself. Once again, it was Trip's turn for confusion. Since when had Archer ever been afraid of him, or anything about him? Lack of anxiety went back to _old_ Jonathan Archer. The Jonathan Archer who would stand up to Forrest, look him straight in the eye during a rebuke. Even when he knew he was _right_, Trip couldn't do that. Even now, he felt like he should be the one cringing. _He_ was the one who crossed the line. _Never complain, never explain, never apologise_. That was the Archer Trip knew. Not this…

"Sorry, sir. I shouldn't have snapped like that." _Trip_ was the type to apologise, a useful trait when you tended towards the impulsive. "I'm just…" He blew a deep breath between his lips. "I'm a little short on caffeine. I'm a little short on a lot of things, including my temper. I'm sorry. You're right, sir. We should consider being able to defend ourselves. I've been focussing a little too much on the technical issues." A lousy apology.

**_Probably because you don't need to apologise. Sometimes, Trip, the other person is the one wrong._** If Inner-Charles was being supportive, things were worse than he thought. **_Of course, that would deny you your 'poor pitiful me' martyr status, wouldn't it._**

Well, thank God for some small mercies. They left the armoury in silence, neither one daring to look at the other. Something passed between them, a current of misunderstanding

Halfway between the armoury and the turbolift they hit an intersection. "Crewman." Archer barked it out, a definite command.

Kaci looked at them, no expression in her eyes. No denial, no defiance, no regret. She met them at the T, said nothing.

"Do you mind telling us where the phase pistol batteries disappeared to?" Archer didn't even bother to ask her if she was involved, give her a chance to insist on her innocence.

Her expression didn't change. No yes, no no.

"Crewman? I believe I asked you a question."

"Sir?" Trip couldn't watch this. It was bullying in the first degree, almost a one-eighty from Archer's previous behaviour. From _any_ of Archer's behaviour. "We don't even know that Crewman DiLorenza had anything to do with this." He stepped between her and Archer, shielding the younger, smaller person from the onslaught. "It was just a possibility, sir. An assumption." He searched for something else to defend her with, to even excuse her non-responsiveness. "She's _my_ responsibility sir, she's on my crew. Let me handle it, please?" He hated begging, but… the theft bothered him. Archer's flip-flops were easier to swallow than Kaci being in any way aggressive. And so far, she'd been more help to him than his friend and captain.

Archer shrunk back again, conceding the point. It was almost as if he didn't hear the pleading, the courtesies, only heard Trip contradicting him, and didn't want to fight. Like… Trip shook his head. There was nothing he could compare it to, had never seen anything like it. **_Yes, you have_**.

_Yeah, but Archer's not…there is no way… who'd have the guts…_ What he looked like was someone who'd been hit one too many times and expected it from everywhere. Who'd do anything to avoid another beating. Like…

**_Like you before you met Toby. When you were the class punching bag, in more ways than one._** No, not quite. More like Danny Malone, who'd pick on the little kids at school, and slunk around at home trying to disappear. A bully, but only because he was bullied himself. _So, who's picking on you, cap'n?_ The answer, the obvious one was clearly impossible. _How in the hell can it be me?_

"This is not the job I expected." Trip teased another burnt out board from its housing, replaced it with a new one. He didn't have the energy to go climbing up and down the ladder forever, so – logically – the turbolift was the thing that needed fixing first. Now that basic services were back on-line. He could have used more help, but Archer didn't want Kaci working on anything, and even Trip couldn't deny his suspicions. True, he'd defended her, but on pure reflex. White knight syndrome.

So she sat just within his line of sight, back against the wall. Archer worked on his own assignment a little farther down, occasionally throwing suspicious glances at Kaci. _Why do I suddenly feel like a parent?_

The shock came out of nowhere, blasting through the insulation, ignoring the grounds, and heating straight for the bigger target. It lifted him off his feet and tossed him against the far wall like a piece of debris in a hurricane. Every nerve in his body lit up like he'd been dipped in phosphorus. He screamed, thought he screamed, had to be screaming.

He rebounded off the wall, landing almost at the next one. Paralysed, he could do nothing, the world seemed too far away in any case.

"Ohmigod." It came out as one word, Archer's voice. Was that panic in the tone? Why should Archer be panicking? Trip wasn't.

**_Shock. You can't think straight_**.

_Shock_. That was funny. _Shock sums it up. Shock from a shock. I'm shocked_.

**_You're hysterical._**__

_ Thank you._

_ **I wasn't talking funny.**_

_ I wouldn't say anything, even if you were._

_ **Great**_**.** Inner-Charles sounded disgusted_ **I'm dying, and I'm carrying on a stand-up routine in my own head.**_

_Dying?_ Abruptly he realised the tightness in his chest, the fact that nothing made sense. _Not again_.

Archer rolled him onto his back, untangling his limbs. Unable to do anything else, unable to say what was wrong, he lay on his back, staring up at Archer. Something was odd here, just slightly off. Maybe it was the extreme look of concern in Archer's eyes, more than Trip had ever seen there before. _He wasn't this worried last time_. Last time, when he'd cajoled Trip into staying conscious, staying out of a coma. He'd been worried then, sure, but now he looked close to tears

Archer leaned in close, his cheek just brushing Trip's lips. He pulled back, "He's not breathing." He leaned in again.

_ Yes, please. Yes._ Trip wanted to scream it aloud, couldn't. He tried to force the words past his lips, but to no avail. _I don't want to die. Help me!_ He knew now why drowning people thrashed around in their last moments. Dying _hurt_. He felt Archer's lips against his, forceful, desperate, forcing air into his non-functioning lungs.

Archer's hands worked quickly, getting the shirt out of the way, then his head moved down to Trip's chest. He paused there for a second, maybe less -- "No pulse." --then set to work, steady, rhythmically. One-two-three-four-five. He leaned in again, mouth to mouth, then pulled back and resumed the count. _One-two-three-four-five_. He straddled Trip, and Kaci's face moved in from the top, she looked at Archer with a question, then her lips replaced his on Trip's. _Oh, yes…Please, girl, help me out here. I need you again, more than I needed you on that ladder. Help me, please. Don't give up on me…_

"Don't give up." Archer echoed Trip's silent request with an order. "He's tough, he's not going to die. He's just unconscious, he's not dead yet."

_No, I'm not_. Not dead, and not unconscious either. Nor was it an out of body experience, this was way too painful for that.

Lights flickered and exploded in front of his eyes, despite the best efforts of the other two. He could feel himself slipping away, losing touch.

**_Don't you _DARE_, Tucker. Don't you dare give up now. Do _NOT _go into that light, do you hear me? You are not giving up, you are not going to die. Do you understand me, Tucker? If you die, I die, and I'm not dying here, not like this._**

But it wasn't his decision, was it? He had no idea how to restart his own heart. A complex, multi-system warp engine was child's play for him now, but this simple pump mechanism was beyond his capability.

_{No, it's not your decision, Trip. Trust me, I know a few things about life and death and all that stuff,}_ Toby knelt beside him, more solid now, more real than the other two. She smiled, a wicked little grin that told him he probably wouldn't like what was coming next. _{And if you think I'm going to let you off that easy…}_ A sharp icy pain hit as she slid her fingers _into_ his chest, straight through the flesh and bone and down to the unresponsive organ, then…

His entire body convulsed, jerking off the deck as another shock coursed through him. He collapsed bonelessly and heard, "We've got a pulse. He's breathing." Well, no shit, his heart probably kicked in just so it wouldn't get nailed like that again. _Witch_.

Archer picked him up, easily, cradling Trip to his chest. He said something, but Trip couldn't catch it, only "…bed." _That would be nice…_ Only problem being that the bio-beds weren't fixed yet, all they would provide was a nice slab-like surface for him to lie on. _Frankenstein's monster. Brought back to life by lightning._ Now he did let himself lose consciousness, safe in the knowledge that he didn't need it anymore.

He woke, oriented himself to the increasingly familiar bed of sickbay. _How did they get me here?_ They had been on D-deck, sickbay resided on C. Had he fixed the turbolift? No way they hauled him up the ladder. Maybe Kaci finished fixing it, if the surge hadn't blown everything out. Mmmn. That had to be it.

Slowly he opened his eyes. Archer sat at the foot of his bed, watching.

"Trip." The word came out filled with relief. "You're okay."

"Uhhh. Good. I've always wondered what that felt like." If this was okay, then people could keep it. Carefully he pulled himself into a sitting position, blinking his eyes in an attempt to clear the spots. He felt like he'd been run over, then they'd backed up and done it again a few times. His hands shook. _Nerve damage_. Not surprising, the human nervous system wasn't intended to carry that kind of a load. At the same time, all he could think of was more time wasted unconscious. He slid his legs to the floor, stumbling when they wouldn't take his weight.

"Easy." Archer caught his arm, steadying him. "You just got one hell of a jolt, Trip. I know you're tough, but…"

"Tough, shit. More like terminally stupid." Lucky too, he realised. The clothing he'd grabbed, all of it was cotton. Scorched in places, now, but… synthetics, like those in his uniform, would have melted to his skin, increasing the severity of his burns. What he had was bad enough.

Archer smiled, didn't let go of Trip's arm. Instead, he reached over with his free hand, smoothed an errant lock of Trip's hair off of his forehead. "I wouldn't say that…"

_Um…_Trip pulled back, found himself trapped by the bed and the wall. "Sir?" There was something a little too tender in Archer's gesture. A little too gentle. And the look on his face…

_I've never gotten _that_ look from any guy before. I've never _wanted_ it either._ A look of longing, backed by deep sadness.

"Just… you've been acting so different, lately, Trip. These past few hours…the ones you've been conscious for. I was hoping maybe…"

_Maybe what?_ His heart started racing again, and it wasn't anything to do with caffeine. That ladder was starting to look damned attractive at this moment…

"But who's Toby? You kept saying his name while you were out of it. Not Lindekker, is it?"

"Uh, no." Had there been death threats involved? Promises of mutilation, if he could only get his hands on her?

Archer stepped even closer, seemingly oblivious to his chief engineer's panic. "Just tell me, Trip. You've never hidden anything before…"

_Bang_! Before Trip could answer, could think of an answer, something hammered into the sickbay doors. Both heads whipped around, Archer gaining a look to match Trip's.

_BANG_! The doors began to buckle. Whatever was hitting them was hitting them hard. From this angle, he couldn't see what it was, doubted Archer could, either.

_BANG!_ They buckled further, close to giving way.

_So this is how Nell and Theo felt in _The Haunting. The 1963 version. Julie Harris, Claire Bloom, Richard Johnson and Russ Tamblyn. Directed by Richard Wise. The _good_ version of the movie, not the crappy remakes that came later.

Archer let Trip go, backing away. He looked terrified now, as though _anything_ could be coming through those doors. Trip, veteran of many more horror movies had a better idea of what to expect.

A final blow and the doors gave way entirely. A mass of energy hurtled into the room, all reds, greens and purples. In the centre, obscured by the roiling colours around a human figure was barely discernable. She stalked towards Archer, pure anger spoiling her otherwise pretty features. She didn't like Archer, had told Trip as much on more than one occasion. _"LEAVE HIM ALONE!"_ Archer pulled back further, looking to Trip for support.

Trip shrugged, relief flooding through him. _Best friend comes through_. "She never really did learn how to share."

Another thought occurred to him, a recent mystery solved. She sucked the energy out of things when she manifested, hence the cold spots that served as telltale signs of a haunting. Energy could come from _anything_ if you thought about it, especially a nice, portable power source. Like, oh, a dozen or so phase pistol batteries… His eyes widened, a new, horrible thought burning into his already overloaded brain. "You didn't take them _all_ did you?"

She stuck her tongue out at him, crossed her eyes. Little brat. Probably had sucked them all up at once, she'd never been one for half measures.

It took a couple of minutes to calm Archer down into coherence, even more to get him to understand what it was he saw.

"Toby." He stared at the apparition, clearly unwilling to believe his own eyes.

Trip nodded. "And she's definitely dead. Has been for about twenty years now." He fought to keep the giddy grin off his face. "My best friend."

"Toby." Archer repeated. His tone indicated that this was worse news than the possibility of Crewman Lindekker.

"Sorry, sir." He lost the fight, covered his mouth with his hand. Just when he thought things couldn't get any more insane, fate tossed him another curveball to swing at. Or maybe this time it was a slider.

As they spoke, he could see the energy draining away from Toby; she grew dimmer, the colours became less riotous. Pretty soon she'd once again be visible only to himself and Kaci. Probably for the better, that, because Archer didn't seem to be handling the whole disembodied soul thing too well. The man needed distracting.

"I'm hungry." Trip quickly moved the subject into the realm of the physical, hoping to pull Archer's mind out of meta. "Who wants dinner?" He saw Kaci now, she'd entered sickbay shortly after Toby did, but with far fewer dramatics. He caught the flicker in her eyes, took it for a yes.

"Dinner." At least it was a _different_ single word response. Gently, gingerly, Trip reached out for Archer's elbow, began pulling him out of sickbay.

"Food will probably do you good, sir. You're probably suffering from low blood sugar or something." He stared out over Archer's shoulder at Toby. _Don't you dare mess with him any further_. Okay, so Archer was acting weird. That didn't make torturing him any more fair.

He guided the captain down to the mess hall, then through into the galley. Now that he thought about it, he _was_ hungry, and could use some calming down himself. He placed Archer on a stool in the corner, motioned for Kaci to take another one. "Let's see what we've got." He began sorting through various containers; some things he could identify, others he couldn't. "How does spaghetti sound to everybody?"

He took lack of argument for a yes. Humming, he set to work, chopping vegetables, boiling water, seasoning and cooking up some meat. Slowly he surrendered himself to the rhythm, let himself be pulled in by the intricate timing. Cooking required concentration, _good_ cooking required serious focus.

"I didn't know you knew how to cook, Trip." Archer spoke his first full sentence since sickbay, his voice unsteady, uncertain.

Trip shrugged, not even looking up. No sense chopping off a finger, and he still couldn't keep his hands fully steady. "I don't do it all that often. On the other hand, it seemed like an essential survival skill at the time." He had started out of necessity: both Mom and Dad often worked late, someone had to feed the kids. Later it became a comfort, a source of control. A way to keep _himself_ in control. The multi-tasking forced him to slow down, to pay attention. And like anything he put his mind to learning, he'd decided to take the time to learn it well.

"You're going to love this." He finished grating some Romano cheese, mixed it with the Parmesan he'd done earlier. "A friend of mine once swore I was half-Italian." Actually, this was going to be – by his standards – a pretty poor excuse for a meal. Most of the fresh stuff had frozen when the stasis units went offline, and he didn't have the protein resequencers up and running yet. But with any luck, they wouldn't be expecting much, and he'd be able to get by.

_Could be worse. Could be emergency rations._ His lips twitched again. _Could be _Malcolm_ cooking._

"Something funny, Trip?" Archer cautiously tried a mouthful, nodded his approval.

"Nothing, sir. Inside joke." Given the weird way Archer'd been behaving all day, he wasn't sure how the captain would take to Trip's insulting a crewmate. Hell, given the sickbay there was a large possibility the man would get jealous.

He sat down with his own plate at a counter-top, not trusting his hands to hold the plate and feed him at the same time. While this kept him separate from the others, **_what's the matter, don't you trust them?_** it also meant he could see through into the mess hall. And see the shadow coming towards them.

_Right._ His hand closed around something round and heavy. Weightier than he was used to, but the size was right, settling familiarly into the palm of his hand. Slowly, quietly, he stood up, moved towards the doors.

Archer started to rise, but Trip motioned him back down. I'll handle this. He reached the doors, they slid open…

The intruder turned and ran. Normally Trip would give chase _aren't a lot of people who can outrun me over 100 yards, and I tackle pretty well for an ex-quarter,_ but he didn't trust himself to make it in his current state. Instead, his arm pulled back, into the wind-up.

It wasn't his best, it wasn't his fastest, and the weight almost ripped his arm and shoulder to pieces, but it worked. The newcomer screamed as the heavy iron ball – _I wonder what Chef uses that for_ – hurtled in to his leg. He collapsed, whimpering, which gave Trip plenty of time to catch up.

He reached down with both hands, pulled the stranger to his feet, recognised him. "Daniels. What the _fuck_ is going on here?"

Daniels took one look into Trip's eyes, gave up. "I haven't got a clue."

After going through what he could find of Daniels' pockets (there were only so many places Trip was willing to explore), and pulling out a few gadgets he couldn't recognise, Trip escorted Daniels into the galley. Archer jumped to his feet, looking at Daniels like he'd never seen him before. Kaci slipped back into the shadows, but not before Trip caught a glimpse of the large knife she concealed on herself. _Noted_.

Trip shoved Daniels towards a chair, picked up a knife of his own. "Start talking." He wasn't sure if Daniels would call his bluff; wasn't sure if he was bluffing.

"It's not supposed to be you." Either Daniels was a very good actor and liar – something Trip hadn't seen proof of up until now – or he really didn't know anything. "This wasn't supposed to happen at all, but if it did, it wasn't supposed to be you, _or_ her." Daniels gestured vaguely at Kaci. "Archer was supposed to be the one who stayed behind. You don't figure into this."

"Into _what_?" Trip's patience frayed another notch.

Daniels sighed. "I've told you before, this time is a very important one for the Temporal Cold War. There are people out there who want nothing more than your mission to fail."

"The virus."

Daniels nodded. "Yes. We weren't able to stop them from infecting Enterprise's computers, but it's _supposed_ to be Archer here. _He's_ supposed to be the one who stops it. Not you. You've upset everything history has ever known."

**_Well sorry I couldn't be more cooperative. I'll try to remember that _next_ time I end up lying on the floor, unconscious during an evacuation order. Asshole._**

Daniels caught something in Trip's eyes, shrank back. "We can't compensate for you. There's some pasts where it's not Archer, I'll admit, but it's never you. One or two for Mayweather, another for Sato. There's even one where Reed ends up being the one left behind, but not a single one where it's you. Do you understand?"

Trip shook his head. "No. Because, apparently it's just happened. And the fact that _you're_ here implies that there's a future of some kind, somewhere." Amazing how tired and shock could get your brain working in ways it didn't normally. Better. Nastier.

Daniels gritted his teeth. "That's what's wrong. It _shouldn't_ be you. You've screwed it up." He flinched as Trip cracked his knuckles during the last sentence. "Every single future is now bearing down on this one point. Do you know what that means?"

"Yeah. We've stopped." There was more to it than that – wasn't there always – but he was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that out of _all_ the countless possibilities, not one of them was supposed to include him. It defied rational thought. It defied _irrational_ thought. It was insulting.

Daniels blinked, surprised. "That's one way of putting it. Nothing is happening, nothing _can_ happen until this issue works itself out. Time itself is no longer functioning outside of this ship, and I don't think I have to explain how _that_ could be a problem."

"I'm surprised you didn't just go back and make sure I left the ship. That's what a reasonable person would do in this situation, but maybe I'm overestimating you." _I did just say what I thought I just said, right?_

"Go back to _when_? I told you, there is no point in any history where this happens. There is no point to go back before. You've…" Daniels gestured, looking for a word.

"Sideslipped?"

Daniels nodded. "I suppose that's as good a word as any. History doesn't work like everybody thinks. There are timestreams, and there are places outside… not outside. It's more like a dam across a bunch of streams. They all pile up, converge until the dam breaks, usually with disastrous results. You haven't just dammed up a few, you've managed to cut off every single one. That has _never_ happened before, not as far as we can tell."

"Damn." Trip couldn't help himself, the opening waited there like a gift.

"You may well be." Daniels muttered something else under his breath.

" 'Scuse me?" When Daniels didn't reply, Trip tapped the knife against the Temporal Agent's chest.

"I said we should have done more to prevent you from getting assigned to this ship. You're dangerous, Mr. Tucker. A loose cannon."

Trip smiled; it wasn't friendly. "Well too bad for you I've got such a short fuse. Strip"

"What?" Daniels eyes widened, he looked over to Archer for support.

"Strip." Trip tapped the knife against Daniels' chest again. The thought that he might have been prevented from serving on Enterprise pissed him off, sent him on a childish search for revenge. _And to think I helped the slimy bastard_.

Daniels pointed over at Archer, obviously stalling. "I bet you haven't even figured out that that's not your captain."

"Fuse is burning, Daniels. Either take your clothes off, or I do it for you. I can have DiLorenza leave the room if that's a problem for you. But one way or another you are losing what you're wearing." Trip had no real desire to see Daniels naked, but he had a plan forming and didn't want the Temporal Agent to be fooling around with any of his little toys.

Kaci stood up and walked out, but not before looking at Trip and giving a slow nod. Daniels began removing his outfit, stopped when he stood in his underwear.

"All of it." He wasn't going to risk Daniels holding any gear stashed away where he could easily get to it. Anything he could hide without his clothing, he could keep. _'Cause I'm not chasing after it_.

"Captain." Trip gestured towards one of the pantries as Daniels took off the rest of his clothing. Archer scrambled to his feet and opened the door. Trip kicked Daniel's clothing away into a jumbled pile, then jerked his head towards the pantry. "Inside."

Daniels allowed himself to be locked in, clearly not believing the events. "You're crazy, Commander. You're absolutely insane."

"So I've been told. Unfortunately, nobody's been able to prove it. Don't worry, you should have plenty of air. We'll let you out later, after I get this fixed. Otherwise, I can't have you getting in the way."

"You have no idea what it is you're doing. How can you fix it when you don't have even the slightest clue what's going on?" Daniels' voice held an extra note of pleading. Maybe he was afraid of the dark.

**_Should've thought of that before you fucked with _me_, buddy. I'm about as dark as it gets._** "From what you've said, you haven't got a fucking clue, either. Nighty-night." He shoved the door closed, soldered it shut. If he'd brought the tools he'd have welded it. He turned away, ignoring the pounding from within.

"Trip?" Archer peered at him, afraid to approach. "What's going on?"

Trip took a deep breath, got control of himself again. "Like he said, I haven't really got a clue. Well, maybe…" He looked at Archer again, looked closely. Something Daniels said _did_ make sense, explained a lot of things. "Tell me about us."


	6. Shading In the Details

Disclaimer:  Many of these are not my characters.  This story is for entertainment purposes only.

Author's Note:  Given that I cannot find a name for Trip's brother, I have given him one, following the British Royalty theme the family seems to be on.  Also, once again, for a refresher _{Toby__}_  **_Inner-Charles_**  unspoken dialogue and [flashback].  Other than that, the style should follow basic convention

**Chapter 5:  Shading in The Details**

            Maybe I'm rough around the edges, and stubborn to a fault

            Maybe I'm just a little too hot-headed, stiff back bone and all…

                                                --- Chely Wright

            Probable impossibilities are to be preferred to improbable possibilities.

                                                ---Aristotle

            "We've been what?"

            Archer tried to explain again, but Trip waved him off.

            "Five _years_?"  Trip moaned, burying his head in his arms.  They sat in the mess hall now, less able to hear Daniels' screams and pounding. "You're telling me that you and…" He searched around for another word, then gave up.  "…me have been seeing each other for five _years?_  I'm lucky if I can get a relationship to last past the five _month_ mark."  That explained a lot of Archer's – no, not Archer, this wasn't Archer.  It may look like him, talk like him, even think it _was_ him, but this wasn't Archer.  "I gotta think of something to call you.  You're _not_ my captain…" He held up his hand to forestall a protest, "You're _not_.  I can't call you that, and keep my brain straight.  I'm sure as hell not calling you Archer, either…"

            "John?  That's what I'm used to you calling me."  Hope crept into his voice, as though he hadn't accepted that this wasn't the man he was used to either.

            No.  Nothing familiar, don't want to confuse his brain either.  "Jonathan.  I've never called him that, before, not to his face, anyway."

            Jonathan made a face, kind of like Toby when someone used _her_ formal given name, just not as murderous.  "I've never liked _Jonathan_.  It's so formal, so…"  He shrugged.

            "Yeah, well… other than 'Hey, you.  Tall guy,' I can't think of much."  Trip toyed with his spaghetti, not hungry any more.  "As for your…Charles ought to work.  Presumably you are going to mention him, once or twice."

            "And you stay Trip."  Jonathan looked as though he was going to say something about it not being fair.

            "It's who I am, and believe me, I don't need any more confusing on that issue.  Besides, my people outnumber yours at the moment, and I don't want to have to concentrate on responding to fifty different names at once."  Okay, so it wasn't logical, even according to the logic he was using, it wasn't even reasonable.  Then again, Trip didn't get where he was today by being logical and reasonable.

            "I count one. Two, if you include the dead girl."

            "I do.  Which makes it three to one.  My magic number."  He didn't think it prudent at this point to mention Inner Charles and up the count to four.  Bad enough as it was… if Jonathan knew about Trip's little voices…

            "Three."  Jonathan snorted, shaking his head, and Trip knew he'd won.  "You are one nasty negotiator."

            Trip grinned.  "And I didn't even get started. You should see me at cards."

            Jonathan sobered, and Trip wondered what kind of sore spot he'd hit.  _Archer's one of the few good competitors I've ever had in a card game.  What gives?_

            "Sorry."  Jonathan pulled into himself, pensive.  "I keep forgetting you're not Trip.  Charles.  He's good at cards too."  He spoke the last sentence so softly that Trip could barely hear it.  Sadness infused every word, shouting that there was more to it than just cards.  Much more.

            Silence settled in for a few more moments, each lost in his own thoughts.  Finally Trip pushed his plate aside and stood up.  "We've got a lot more work to do if we're going to…  Kaci?  Crewman?"  She'd vanished again.

            **_Way to go paying attention, Tucker.  God knows what she's up to; you don't completely trust her, do you?_**

            "Shut up, she's probably way ahead of us, getting the job done.  Besides, I'm sure Toby's watching her."

            **_Are you sure?  Because I could swear that's Toby over there, making faces at your new buddy._  **Way _to_ go paying attention.  First he doesn't see a flesh and blood person go missing, then he doesn't see an incorporeal one show up.  Jonathan looked at Trip strangely, still unused to the sight of a grown man talking to himself.  _I don't do that over there?_

            "Trip."  Jonathan still spoke softly, but there was less hurt in it this time.  "How much do you know about that girl?"

            "Who?  Kaci?  Enough I guess."  Not really, though.  All he really had on her was the story she told him. And the fact that she was from his timestream.  _Are you sure?_  If Jonathan could cross over, couldn't she?  Trip had been unconscious enough times for a change to occur.  A cold uncertainty settled in; _who can I trust?_

            Well, Toby, obviously, unless another Trip out there just happened to have a dead best friend who wouldn't go away.  _And _was so identical to her in personality for it to make no difference.  Given events with Jonathan, that seemed unlikely as well.  But who else?

            **_That would be me._**

            "How do I know that?  How do I know anything?  I swear this is the most seriously fucked up situation I have ever been in."  If only he could get his hands to stop shaking, maybe he could think more clearly.  Probably not… nobody thought he thought clearly on the best of days.  Hopefully Jonathan would just assume Trip was talking to Toby and leave it at that.

            **_Well, Tucker, unless you're not you, I would hazard a guess that the little voice in your head is still the SAME FUCKING ONE.  You've got to start somewhere.  Your own head would be a good start._**

            Would it?  Given the circumstances…

            **_I thought I told you not to go down that route, Tucker.  That is not what is going on here, now are you going to trust me, or some guy who doesn't know you at all?  Now screw your head on _straight_, or I'm going to do it for you._**

            "Gotcha."  Inner-Charles didn't make threats, he promised.  Thank God nobody had pressed charges, then again, he wouldn't, would he?

[           "Oh, God, Gina, what happened?"  The place was a mess; looked like back home after a hurricane.  Every room was turned upside down, trashed.  No sign of Angelo or David. Odd, because they never left.

            "Someone broke in, Charles.  Angelo and David are at the hospital, Angelo was just hit on the head, but David…"

            David, who didn't understand violence in the conventional sense, didn't know to be quiet and it would go somewhat away.  He'd seen a stranger, seen his world disrupted and did what came normally to him:  screamed a protest. And in response, this stranger hadn't put things right, hadn't tried to calm him, rather had gone to work shutting him up in the most emphatic way possible.  He had been barely breathing when one of the other tenants found him, called emergency services.

            "Who did this, Gina?  This isn't a robbery in the conventional sense, you don't get enough of them any more to count."  His own voice sounded odd to his ears.  Harsh, unfeeling.  "You know who did this, don't you?"  It was written all over her face, that she either knew or had an idea.  So did he, but needed confirmation. "You were here, weren't you?"  He could see the swelling, the redness.  She'd been hit too, but hadn't gone to the hospital, had been too stubborn.

            She shook her head, denying it.  No, she didn't know, had no idea.  It all happened too fast, she didn't see anything.

            "Then what did you _hear_?"  Sight isn't the only sense that can identify a person, and in many cases the least reliable.

            He didn't let go, didn't let up until she told him.  Everything grew colder, calmer after that.  He nodded, stepped back.  Headed for the door.

            "I'm sorry, Charles. I know, I've got to be wrong…"  He could hear the fear in her voice, fear from what happened, fear of _him_ in the odd, angry state.

            He ignored her, kept going.  He knew who now, even if she didn't.  He didn't _care_ about excuses this time.  Not when David was the one hurt.  David didn't deserve it, none of it.  **_It's like hurting Elizabeth_**.

            Icy rage powered him through the streets, walking fast, never running.  He had a fair idea where to search, where to find.  His third choice resulted in success.  His quarry sat at a table in the back, grinning and laughing.  Knuckles still bruised and raw curled around a cold glass.

            "Hey."

            Quarry looked up, looked scared.  "Easy."  A soft, southern drawl.  So goddamn familiar, just like that young, innocent looking baby face.  Lights still sparking in his eyes.  Still very, very dangerous.

            Not as dangerous as him, though.  Quarry never saw it coming, not until a dominant left hand reached over and twisted that fight damaged hand up and around, calmly snapping the bones in the forearm.  Ignoring the screams he reached over farther, grabbed a handful of hair and smashed the attached head into the table.

            "I don't know you."  He ground his captive's head harder into the table, leaning close to near whisper in his ear.  "I never want to know you.  Stay away from me, stay away from everybody I _do_ know.  'Cause if you don't, we _are_ going to be come much better acquainted, and I don't think you're going to like that."  His opponent's inhuman strength seemed to be failing him.  "If you get a call, don't answer it.  You've had your chances, you've fucked every single one of them up, and I'm not playing sorry.  You just passed the point of no return tonight, brother, and I have no sympathy left.  I don't care what your problem is: it's not mine anymore."  One last hard shove, then he walked away, leaving his past in a mix of spilled alcohol, blood and tears of incoherent rage.  **_I quit, Dad.  No more._**]

            "Trip?"  Jonathan's voice cut in, snapping him out of it.  "Looks like I lost you there for a moment.  Something wrong?"

            "Bad memory."  Everything in his tone said 'leave it alone'.  One of his basic rules:  unless I bring it up, don't discuss my past.  Archer'd learned to tiptoe in that territory, to avoid it entirely unless it intruded on the present.  This didn't count under those rules, not as far as he was concerned.

            "Want to talk about it?" Jonathan obviously hadn't learned Archer's lessons, or didn't think that Trip followed the same rules.

            _Be fair._  How could he assume that when so many other, major things were different.  "No."  Harsh, cold, not fair at all.

            Jonathan took a couple of steps back, and raised his hands, warding Trip off.  "Sorry.  I didn't mean to offend you."  There was another silence before he caught up to Trip again, senior following subordinate.  Still, he seemed to be expecting something other than what he got, something more than simple anger and hurt.

            Trip sighed, stopping for a moment.  "I just…  I know you've got no way of knowing, but there's just some things I don't like to discuss.  I know, I know, I talk about everything, right?  It's a miracle just to get me to shut up.  I just…"  He didn't finish, just kept going again, shaking his head.  Some lessons you learned the hard way, prejudice being one of them.  _The last remaining one_.  Anything else, and people didn't' care… this still scared most everybody so deeply that they never faced it.  _Even I can't, half the time_.

            "We all have secrets."  Again Jonathan sounded so sad, like his memories could be worse than Trip's.  It almost, _almost_ left Trip wanting to ask what those secrets could be, but he loved his own too much to return the favour.  No way was he going to play the "I'll tell you mine…" game with someone who wasn't a perfect stranger, someone he'd likely be seeing more than two minutes afterwards.

            "Yeah."  Big ones, little ones.  Almost always dark and scary.  Part of him wanted to tell, to share everything with this surrogate.  After all, if he got things right, he'd probably never see Jonathan after this, _wouldn't_ have to worry.  Except… how much damage would he do to his _other_ self, handing out the deepest darkest moments of life?  If they shared those things… how would he feel if someone told Archer?  There _would_ be damage done: it wasn't knowledge you could gain without it re-shaping your opinions.  _And I'd rather Archer think I'm an occasional idiot rather than… than any of the possibilities of him knowing_.  Not just the likelihood of revulsion, of fear, but of _sympathy_, or worse yet, _pity_.

            _I'm nobody's poor baby._  He'd rather be hated and alone – he could handle that, had done it before – than have people feeling sorry for him.

            "Captain.  Thank God you're all right."  The new voice made both of them jump, the relief on their faces identical.

            "Malcolm."  It came out a chorus, there was no one else who could belong to those proper British tones.  They turned to face him, stopped cold.

            A long gash ran down the side of Malcolm's face, one eye swollen shut.  _That_ wasn't the problem, though; the problem was the phase pistol he pointed at them: even at this distance Trip could see it was set on kill.

            "Who are you?  Step away from him."  Malcolm raised the pistol a little more, so that it pointed directly at the centre of Trip's chest.  "Captain, I'm…"

            "Apparently this is one of those times Daniels succeeded." Trip murmured, hoping Jonathan had been paying attention to that conversation.  "Where they succeeded in not getting me assigned?"

            Jonathan nodded, slowly.  "I'd say so."  He raised his voice, used a calming tone he was obviously accustomed to having to employ.  "Malcolm, it's okay.  He's not going to hurt me.  I'm fine."

            Malcolm looked more closely at Trip, then his grip tightened on the phase pistol.  "No sir.  I just don't know how he got here, sir."

            "You recognise him, then?" Trip was more than happy to let Jonathan handle these negotiations.  Something about this Malcolm disturbed him, more than the fact that he didn't know Trip.  It was in the eyes, the posture.  Too edgy, too jumpy.  He'd seen that look before, knew it wasn't a good one to stare at over the wrong end of a phase pistol.

            "He was at the Academy, sir.  Rather notorious case, sir.  They court-martialed him for theft, he tried to steal the NX prototype right out of the hangar.  He assaulted two officers sent to retrieve him.  He was also found guilty of several counts of insubordination.  I'm surprised you don't remember."  Malcolm's eyes (or rather the working one) shifted back and forth between the two of them now.  "I do believe he was found not guilty due to mental defect.  He's insane, sir."  He opened his mouth to say more, screamed.  An eight inch blade now protruded the arm holding the pistol.  Dropping the weapon, Malcolm turned to face this new opponent, more immediately dangerous.

            Trip leaped, knocking the ersatz Malcolm to the floor.  A hand reached down, retrieved the pistol, and levelled it at the two of them.

            "Thanks, crewman.  I owe you one."  More than one, if this Malcolm had been about to blurt out what Trip thought he was going to.  Kaci didn't even nod, just kept the firearm pointed steadily.

            Using Kaci's knife, Trip cut a few strips off of Malcolm's uniform, used them to bind the man's wrists, then his feet.  Another one served as a bandage for his wound, then Trip slipped a final one into his captive's mouth as a gag.  _I'm not letting him say it._  Once he had the lieutenant secured, Trip dragged him over to one of the crew quarters, and locked him inside.

            "Now be nice, and I'll let you out later."  He could see in the lieutenant's eyes that he only confirmed the wide-held opinion.  _Crazy_.  Maybe he was, this certainly wasn't rational behaviour…

            **_Context._ ** Right.  _Any_ behaviour seen out of context could be misconstrued. And these were hardly normal circumstances. **_Look what you did with that dream_**.

            Looking over at Jonathan, Trip stifled a giggle.  _I don't know, could've been pretty accurate, depending on the universe_.

            **_Moron_.**  There was a lot of relief in that voice now, as they veered away from dangerous ground.  Still, Jonathan looked at him in the scared-rabbit way of his, as though the violence was too much for him to handle.

            "Are you okay?"  Funny Trip should be the one asking that, given that he was the one who'd almost been shot.

            "I thought he was going to kill you."  Jonathan sounded close to tears.  "What could possibly make him want…"

            "Different timeline."  Why did Daniels have to be right?  Couldn't he once in his interfering life get it wrong?  "You heard him, over there I was found to be insane.  He thought you were his captain; he was protecting you."  _Found_ to be insane, but had he really been?  Or was it just a ploy, a way to stay out of prison for all those things he apparently did.  **_Apparently?_**

            Jonathan had the same thought.  "Did you, I mean did _you_ do anything like that?"

            Now Trip did laugh.  "Not only try, but succeed.  I had Archer with me on that, we were desperate to see if we could get her to fly.  The crazy thing is, we got away with it, and it didn't delay our promotions, either.  What?  You guys didn't have to do that with yours?  The Vulcans didn't try and hold you back, try and scrap it?"

            Jonathan sighed.  "Yes, they did.  They put a lot of pressure on Admiral Forrest, but someone else put more.  We haven't exactly been friends with the Vulcans since then."

            Oh.  Who would… "Lemme guess.  Yours truly.  So to speak."

            Jonathan nodded.  "Some evidence of something or other.  Something Forrest didn't precisely want made public."

            Trip chewed his lip, trying to think before speaking.  "You know, I don't think I'm liking myself all that much."  _Blackmail_?  He'd never stoop that low unless lives were at stake, or the stakes (and the blackmail) weren't that high at all.  Not something so relatively mid-grade as the survival of a research project.  _I guess that's why I never went into academics._

            "No, no.  You're a wonderful person.  He is." Something lay hidden behind those words, something not being said.

            "Wonderful people don't stoop to blackmail to get what they want."

            Jonathan back-pedalled further, a difficult feat.  "It was for a good cause.  It kept the NX program going, got us out into space.  That's what you committed theft for, isn't it?"

            Trip's jaw tightened.  Bad enough to hear he was a bastard, but he didn't like the defence any better.  "Nobody got hurt when we stole the prototype.  It was just me, and Archer, and Robinson, and we all knew the consequences if we got caught."  Another hole in Reed's tale:  what had happened to the other two?  Had that Tucker lost it when they hung him out to dry?  "We didn't _make_ anybody do something they didn't want to.  And maybe we're not best buddies with the Vulcans, but we didn't alienate them either. First officer on this ship is a Vulcan.  Maybe she was sent here to spy on us, but at least relations are warm enough to warrant open spying."  He shot Jonathan a look, anger mixed with hurt.  Anger that Jonathan could think that the two actions were the same, hurt that the man – stranger that he was – could think Trip capable of such malicious behaviour.

            "I'm sorry.  It's just… well, he is a decent guy, really.  He's just got a few judgement problems."  Jonathan had backed away during Trip's tirade, staying just out of arm's reach.  _What the…_

            It dawned, and he almost kicked himself for not guessing sooner.  "Does he hit you?  Charles?"  He knew his own temper, how much he had to fight not to descend into violence when it erupted.  _And people think I have no self-control_.  Bad enough he sometimes slipped into verbal abuse but… _some lines don't get crossed_.

            Jonathan shook his head, denial serving as confirmation.  It seemed strange, almost impossible.  Jonathan Archer, this one, any one, had the physical size and strength to more than handle Trip.  Unless…

            "Not really.  I mean, no.  No.  Okay?  He has his problems…"

            "No."  It came out a shout, chasing Jonathan back further.  "There's no excuse for that, _never_ an excuse.  _James_ has problems, _James_ can't control himself, but that's still no excuse.  And I'm wagering that there's nothing wrong with Charles, any more than there is with me.  No excuse.  Never."  His hands shook harder now, rage enhancing the effects of the shock.  In the back of his mind he screamed.  _What have you done?_  It was out now, couldn't be taken back.   Words spoken, heard, made real.  He chewed his lip harder, tasting blood as his teeth cut into flesh.

            "James?"  Jonathan eased out of his cringe when he realised that Trip was more likely to damage himself than anyone else.  "What about him?"

            Trip turned away, not willing to speak.  Only one other person on this ship knew about James, knew better than to talk to Trip about it.  _Their_ deepest, darkest troubles lay in that direction; neither one was willing to damage the other by asking about the truth.  He could feel his legs weakening, the stress too much for his damaged body.

            Kaci caught him as he slid down the wall, held his arm and slowed his descent.  When he reached a sitting position, she let him go and just looked at him with her patient eyes.  I told you about mine.

            Fair was fair, and his story could hardly be worse, right?  "I don't suppose Charles talks about his brother, much."

            Jonathan crossed to the wall opposite Trip, but remained standing.  "No, he doesn't.  I understand there was some trouble, but that's about it…"

            Trouble?  Oh, yeah, there'd been trouble all right.

[           "Will Charles Tucker please report to the office?"

            Trip groaned, dropping his head to his desk.  _What is it this time?_  He could hear the giggles and snickers of his classmates; and why shouldn't they.  _They_ weren't the ones just summoned to the seventh circle of hell.

            "Charles.  I believe Mr. Kendricks was talking to you."  Having Ms Langdon as a teacher only made it worse.  Other teachers liked him; Ms Langdon didn't like anybody, especially overly bright young boys with – as she expressed it – an unhealthy interest in young girls.

            Girl, to be specific, and insofar as he could tell the relationship was only unhealthy for him.  These two years since he'd met Toby had resulted in an extraordinary number of hospital visits, but they _had_ been interesting.  Added lots of words to his vocabulary, too:  words like abrasion, contusion and fracture.  Like concussion.  He'd learned a lot too.  Gravity really did work the same on falling objects, regardless of weight and size, even if one of those objects is a flailing terrified boy.  That certain chemicals mixed and left out in the sun can explode.  The difference between first, second, and third degree burns, and that doctors can be very sarcastic when they get to know you on sight.  And that, no matter what his foibles and phobias, he could be talked into pretty much anything.

            "Charles!"  Ms Langdon snapped it this time.  "Your presence has been requested in the office.  You _will_ report there, now."

            "How sad for you they abandoned the strap." Toby muttered, not at him, but at Ms Langdon.  The teacher may have had everybody else cowed, but Toby backed down from nobody.

            "October, that will be quite enough from you."  Ms. Langdon did not countenance the use of nicknames -- a fact which needled Toby more than it did Trip.

            Toby's feet scraped under her desk; Trip shot her a warning look.  He knew what she was trying to do, she wanted to accompany him down there so he wouldn't have to face it alone.  In typical Toby fashion, she'd raced right on past the fact that doing so would get her into more trouble than he likely was in.  Not that she'd care:  any amount of trouble was worth it for a friend.

            _Not a selfish bone in her body_.  Oh sure, she had her moments, but nothing really deep enough to count.  Not like him.  He probably would have stayed silent, and let Ms. Langdon sneer with impunity.  Everybody thought Toby had some big brother/hero crush, but the truth was… _I admire _her_._

Slowly he stood up, walked past Ms. Langdon without looking at her.  But if the teacher tore a strip off of Toby for insolence… well, he'd have a few things to say about it.  Maybe not actually _say_ them -- he didn't have Toby's lack of fear in authority.  _Another way I wish I could be like her_.

            Out in the hall, he turned right and began trudging towards the office.  Partway, it became clear that the office _wasn't_ going to be his final destination, if he got there at all.

            _Oh no.  No.  This isn't…not me…_  He stopped dead in the hall, wanting to turn and run, knowing he couldn't.  Knowing that it wouldn't be responsible behaviour.  That was something else that got him in trouble with his peers – his insistence on taking the heat for what he'd done, on doing the right thing – but it was one of the few things about himself that he felt proud of.  Quickly he shoved his hands in his pockets, so no one could see them shaking.  There could only be one reason for the crowd of students, teacher and administrators milling around the door to the grade-three classroom.  "Why me?"

            That was the big question, wasn't it?  Why him, why did it fall to a ten-year-old to solve a problem that the adults were afraid of?  _Because_ he answered himself, treacherously, _he's _your_ brother_.  Which meant what, exactly?  That Trip had to clean up everything, had to deal with the undealable?

            _Just one of the joys of being the eldest_.  This big-brother stuff wasn't all that big a privilege as far as he was concerned.  So far all it meant was a recycled name, and an expectation that he look after everything.  _That's not what I signed on for_.  Especially not in cases like this.

            "Charles."  Mr. Norrington, the vice-principal hurried up, taking Trip by the arm.  "I'm sorry, but we really need you to do something.  It's your brother, he won't listen, he won't…"

            Trip tuned out the rest of it, a familiar litany by now.  Was he the only person who saw a pattern here?  Maybe this time James had done something worthy of expulsion, and Trip could spend a day not worrying that something would happen, could let it be someone else's problem.  Given the exiles, it seemed like this time went beyond the usual screaming match, the hyper-fits.  It seemed funny, usually it was the miscreant sent into the hall, not the rest of the class.  At the same time, if it was James, it wasn't funny in the least.

            "Okay.  Give me a couple of minutes, will you?"  He watched the adults sag with relief, felt another rush of resentment.  All right, so he could generally get his brother down, cool the situation off, but not always.  Sometimes… _sometimes you just lock the door and pretend you can't hear the screaming_.  Everything pointed to this being one of those times, but how could you tell someone that the best thing to do was lock the kid in a closet?

            He took a deep breath and stepped through the door into a disaster area.  Desks lay over-turned all over the classroom, pads were scattered across the floor.  Many of them were damaged from impact; more than just a fall was needed to produce that result.  The large video screen for class lessons sported a large hole; a desk lay below it, right on a perfect angle for it to be a rebound.  _Oh, God_.  It was a prayer, because if James had gotten this bad, this strong…

            Something slammed into him from behind, knocking him forward with enough force for whiplash.  He felt something cut into his cheek, instinctively turned his head to shield his eye. His attacker rode him down, then grabbed a handful of hair and began smashing Trip's head against the floor.  Shouts of incoherent rage affirmed the assailant's identity, as if there had been any doubt.

            Trip struck back wildly with an elbow, loosening James' grip just enough to be able to scramble free.  With no time to get to his feet, he rolled over onto his back, better able to see, better able to use his hands.

            James leapt again, landing on Trip's chest this time, knocking the wind out of his older brother.  He raised the stylus in his hand again, and Trip barely had time to get his hands up before it descended towards an eyeball.  Hardly dangerous in normal hands, the simple tool suddenly transformed into the deadliest weapon Trip had ever imagined.  Anything else – knives, guns, plasma weapons – had never been pointed at him before, had never been so close to actually taking his life.  He looked up into the eyes of his brother -- flashing, dangerous crazy eyes --and a single thought filled his entire consciousness:  _I am going to die._

            He should have been scared, became vaguely aware that he should be scared, but wasn't.  What he _was,_ was angry.  Angry at the universe for giving him a crazy sibling, angry at everybody who felt he was the one who ought to be dealing with.  And angry, deeply coldly _rationally_ angry at James himself, who was – at this moment – the actual threat.

            Pure reaction took over; he grabbed James' arm and twisted, twisted quick and hard until he heard a snap.  The inevitable pain didn't phase James in the least – Trip knew it wouldn't, not with him like this -- but it did force his grip to weaken, if only because his arm could no longer physically operate.  Not giving his brother a chance to react, Trip smashed his other hand twice, hard, into James' temple.  The force of the blows took James off balance, and this time it was Trip who tackled his brother, grabbing hold of James' good arm and twisting it up behind his back before planting a knee on top of it.

            "Stay down."  He growled it into James' ear, leaning his full weight onto his knee for emphasis.  Even if his condition made him the stronger, James position made Trip's order impossible to ignore.  Not that he didn't try, wriggling and thrashing, but Trip was bigger, heavier and was in a position of advantage.

            Using one hand for balance, Trip pulled at his shoelace with the other, until he worked it free from his shoe.  He tied a slipknot in one end, then looped it around James' captive hand.  Only then did he bring James' other arm around, wrapping the smaller boy's wrists tight -- maybe too tight -- but he wasn't about to take chances.

            When he had James' arms secure, he climbed off, and used the lace from his other shoe to bind his brother's ankles.  Only then did he allow himself a look at James' face, murderous rage matching the profanity and threats spewing from a child's mouth.  He reached down, hauled James up and hauled him over his shoulders.  James responded by banging his head against Trip's side, trying to find something he could bite.  Trip ignored him now, no longer a threat.  He walked to the door, not caring what it looked like, and stepped out into the curious, frightened crowd.  The mass of people had grown, one in particular caught Trip's eye.  Typical.  There too late, and scared for the wrong son.

            He walked over, deposited James at their father's feet.  Blood dripped from his cheek all over his shirt, a clump of his hair still dangled in James' fingers, but it was _Trip_ Charles Jr. feared, as though Trip were out to harm James.

            "He needs help.  Deal with it."  Again, short, sharp words, impossible to be misunderstood.  Child more grown up than the parent, with a better understanding of the truth, of reality.  He walked away then, not wanting to deal with any of them.  He could feel the cold rage draining, could feel the after-affects of too much adrenaline, too much stress, too much fear and loneliness.  He knew, just _knew_ that every single one of them would see James as the victim, though he had terrorised all of them.  That all the sympathy would be saved for poor, sick, little James, that they'd demand from Trip compassion in the face of hell.

            He left the school, not caring that he'd received no permission to do so.  _I just did what they were too fucking scared to_.  He deserved whatever small liberties he took right now, to hell with all of them.  _I'm ten fucking years old, and my brother just tried to kill me.  Don't even _think_ about telling me I broke the rules._  Tears stung as they mixed into the cut on his cheek, he could feel his entire body beginning to shake now.  The only cure was to keep walking, keep going somewhere, to the one person who just might believe that it wasn't his fault and could do something about it.  _Mommy, I'm scared_. ]

            He became vaguely aware that Kaci sat beside him now, holding his hand like she had on the ladder.  A simple gesture meant to take away hurt, nothing more.  But he needed that because pain was about all he could comprehend.  Knowing someone was there -- that he wasn't alone -- was the only thing keeping him from coming apart.

            Jonathan said nothing at first, just sat quietly, staring.  "How could you live with that?" he asked, finally.  "How could you deal with that, every day of your life, and not let it destroy you?"

            "Honestly, mostly by not dealing with it.  Before you sits a daily tourist of de Nile."  Even he didn't laugh as the joke fell flat.  He could see other questions forming, jumped in first.  "He was diagnosed after that.  The school insisted on it after all the damage he did, after he posed such a danger to his classmates.  They wouldn't let him back until he'd been examined by a doctor."  A diagnosis that explained everything to Trip, had been denied by his father until no more denials were possible.  _Bi-polar Disorder_.  Rarely did it manifest in kids; it usually waited around until the teenage years or later.  Exceptions always existed, however, and James had fallen neatly into that category.  Having a name for it made it easier: he no longer had to try to explain away James' behaviour with anything other than the simple truth.

            "But still…" Jonathan gazed off into the distance for a moment.  "Even if he was treated for it, knowing what he did…"

            _You don't know the half of it_.  Bi-polar, Trip understood, but James' jealousy towards Elizabeth still left him angry.  _So you weren't the baby anymore.  I didn't hate you when you did that to me_.  Another memory flickered in, his father screaming in shock as he watched Trip sitting on the windowsill, easing baby Elizabeth back inside.  Not believing when Trip tried to say that he wasn't the one putting her _out_, even as James watched from the floor beside the window.  Only his mother had understood, had held him, told him that it was okay, that he'd done the right thing, and that James was too little to understand.   But from that moment on, Elizabeth was well watched:  Charles Jr. afraid of Trip, and Trip keeping her safe from James.  It had worked out well for her; she'd been overprotected, but never felt unloved.  Even James had adjusted, eventually accepting the fact that he could never reclaim his special status, and had settled into a grudging co-existence.

            "Anyway, it's not like he was like that all the time."  That irritated Trip the most: the way people thought that crazy was a constant state, that a bi-polar was either manic, or depressed.  "Most times he was normal, more like you than me.  A little hyper some days, a little subdued others, just like everybody else.  We got along fine, then."  That had been the hardest thing about walking away entirely.  Knowing that the James that hurt David _wasn't_ most-of-the-time James.  Problem was, he _could_ be that way, and took that risk every time he quit his medication.  And Trip had grown past the point of being able to undo the damage that inevitably got done.

            He glanced over again at Kaci, saw that she understood what he meant.  _Just because your family doesn't fit into 'normal' doesn't mean you can't love them._  After all, she'd said that _they_ didn't think _she_ existed, not the other way around.  At the same time, she knew the other tenet to that:  _You have to consider yourself, sometimes.  Even if it hurts._  He felt a sudden rush of gratitude that whatever circumstance had set this mess up, it had left her here too.

            He decided to try his legs again, pulled himself up.  They felt steadier now, as though a rest had been all they needed.  Not perfect, but doable.  He started back down the corridor, down again to main Engineering.  He heard the others fall in behind him, didn't really care.

            "It's just that… what you told me explains so much about Charles.  He's always kept that from me, but I can see…"

            Trip's jaw clenched again, irritation flooding back.  "You're making excuses for him again, aren't you.  'Poor little Charles, had to grow up with all that craziness.'"  He rounded on Jonathan, up into his face.  "Well that was _my_ past, and I didn't grow up into a person that hits people.  They gotta be hitting me first, or threatening someone I care about.  I may not be perfect, but I sure as hell see people as more than things."

            "How can you make those kind of judgements about someone you've never met?"  Jonathan held his ground, but looked like he was going to cry.  Trip could actually see tears forming in the man's eyes, but felt no desire to be nice.

            "Same way you can.  You haven't met _my_ brother, you haven't met _his_ brother, but already you're willing to dismiss James as an unredeemable nutcase."  At least Trip had enough experience to make that decision.  He felt like crying himself out of pure frustration.  How many times would he have to go through this shit; no _wonder_ he never talked about it.  "He's my brother. I love him like crazy, but I don't put my life in danger because of him.  And I sure as hell don't blame his actions on anyone else.  Not Mom, not Dad, and I _damn_ well don't blame the victim."

            "But I do provoke him sometimes…" At least Jonathan no longer denied the undeniable.

            "Bullshit.  Fucking _bullshit_.  If he can't handle his own reactions… what the fuck is he doing in Starfleet anyway?"  Maybe they had different rules over there, certainly sounded like they didn't have a problem with fraternisation.  _I don't care.  Even if it's not against regulation, it's still _wrong.  He remembered a conversation with Toby from a couple of weeks ago, regarding rules and morality.  That there _were_ universal standards on some things, whether anyone liked to admit it or not.

            Jonathan shook his head and turned away, as though Trip could never understand.  _You're right, I can't_.  He knew about the psychology of abuse – despite what people thought, he did have interests other than engineering – but had never understood the total lack of survival instinct.  Anyway, how could someone who obviously had the guts and self-confidence to become a Starfleet captain be so lacking in basic _personal_ confidence?

**_            You made it all the way to commander_**.  Yeah, but not by letting people beat him up.  Indecision fell into a different category, more self-censorship than anything else.

            _I'll take responsibility for _my_ actions, but _other_ people shouldn't suffer because _I_ have no self control._  That tenet formed the cornerstone of his personal philosophy, covered most of his moral standpoints.  The only problem was when people _did_ get hurt, because no matter how much responsibility he took, he couldn't always make it better.  He didn't actually _try_ to hurt people though.

            The journey continued, in uncomfortable silence.


	7. Light and Shadow part 1

Disclaimer:  I do not own these characters.  This story is for entertainment purposes only.

Author's note:  Special thanks to my beta readers: gaianarchy and silvershadowfire.  Thanks for catching all those 3am screwups, guys.  The rest of you, please R&R.  Just to let me know what you think.

Chapter 6:  Light and Shadow pt 1

            Make it go away, or make it better

            Isn't that what love's supposed to do

            Make it go away, or make it better

            'Cause I would do either one for you…

                        --- Holly Cole

            They barely made it to the next corridor before the next interruption hit.

            "What the hell is going on here?"  Daniels – fully dressed and fully angry – strode quickly down the hallway.  One hand held a pad and the other curled into a fist.

            "Oh, hell." Trip muttered.  "I knew I should've used duct tape."  He would have too, had he had any on him.

            _{Um.  That's not the same one.}_  Toby seemed to be having no trouble adapting to the possibility of multiple universes.  Maybe death gave you insights that you couldn't handle while alive.  Then again, this was Toby -- it could be anything.

            "And you know this _how_?"  It certainly _looked_ like Daniels – though Jonathan did look like Archer, even if he didn't act like him – and Trip himself would be angry enough in the Temporal Agent's shoes… or lack thereof as the case may be.

            _{Because I just left the other one naked and not tied up in the closet about two seconds ago.  I am checking on things like that, you know. I mean it's not like you did a wonderful job of securing him, but it looks like without his gadgets he's no good at getting out of anywhere.  Not like you… all that stuff about Eric Weiss was pretty cool, huh?  And you thought I was just weird.}_

            "I still think you're weird, Toby."  Yeah, Houdini had been cool all right.  He'd learned his best break-and-enter trick from that guy, or at least from reading how someone nearly defeated him.  _Always check and make sure the door is locked, first_. 

**_            And if, it's open wonder why._**  Okay, so he'd been caught once or twice on that one – did Inner-Charles always have to remind him?

            "Who's Toby?  What are you doing?  You aren't supposed to be here… you _can't_ be here… it's impossible."  This Daniels had a harder time keeping up.  Even Jonathan seemed to be adjusting better than this, though maybe he'd had more time.

            Trip looked at Jonathan, who ignored him.  _Okay, be that way, asshole_.  He'd handle this himself, then.  Unless Kaci wanted to jump in again, which would be okay too.  He let his body sag in a gesture of defeat, drawing Daniels in closer.

            Bang.  Trip's elbow slammed straight upward into Daniels' chin.  While the smaller man was still stunned, Trip followed up with a roundhouse to the temple. So Hess kept telling him that roundhouses were stupid… he didn't have time to learn any of her tricks.  Anyway, this one did the job, because Daniels slumped to the deck, unconscious.

            "If this keeps up, we're going to run out of storage closets."  With Kaci's help, he stripped this one down too.  He grabbed their latest prisoner under the armpits, dragged him to another set of quarters.  Keeping in mind Toby's advice, he sacrificed some of his wiring to bind Daniels' wrists and ankles.  Then, he not only locked the door, but also ripped out the circuitry afterwards.  "Try and get out of there, asshole."

            Adrenaline drained down again, taking with it some of his earlier hostility.  _Other shoe just dropped, and I avoided it_.  Not that it was liable be the last one; he had an idea that this could go on for awhile.  _An infinite number of universes all tangling up in one point._  What, he wondered, would constitute critical mass in a case like this?  At what point did everything explode, or implode, or whatever it was going to do?

            "I thought you said you didn't hit people."  Jonathan sounded snarky, almost childish.

            "Self-defence."  Maybe Daniels hadn't thrown a punch, but the threat had been there in the voice.  And given that every other person they'd run into – with the sole exception of Jonathan, who'd thought Trip was someone else – had at some point tried to kill or otherwise hinder him…  "Once is an anomaly, twice is coincidence, three is the start of a pattern."

            "Sounds like you've got an excuse for everything."

            Anger welled up again.  "Look.  We can either declare a truce, right here, right now, or you can pick a room, because I'm running out of patience and trust."  He pointed over at Kaci.  "_She_ gets it.  There are no rules here; you've got to make your own.  And since I seem to be the guy in charge, I'm the one who gets to make them."

            "I'm the captain."

            "Not as far as I'm concerned.  As far as I'm concerned, you haven't got the guts for the job."

            Jonathan clenched his fist, swung.  It wasn't a good punch – clearly, he didn't have a lot of experience on that end of things – and Trip dodged to the side easily, then stopped.  _Maybe an object lesson will be good_.  He'd learned this one from one of his old high-school friends.  One try and it had stuck.

            Jonathan swung again, and again Trip dodged, staying only inches out of reach.  A few basics that Hess had tried to instil came back, and he gently blocked the next few attacks, never striking back.  With every avoided punch, he felt calmer, more in control.  _I'm not going to hurt you, because I don't want to have to hurt you._  He didn't need Jonathan out of the way like Daniels, and he wasn't holding a weapon, like Malcolm had been.

            He knew what inevitably would happen, just wasn't sure when it would.  It had only taken him a few missed hits to figure it out -- Jonathan was either angrier or a slower learner.  _Or maybe it's just the possibility of getting some of his own back_.  That worked too, especially if he realised that Charles would have no knowledge, no way of seeking revenge.

            Finally though, Jonathan ran out of steam and stood panting and glaring at an untouched Trip.  Just like Trip had done all those years ago.

            "You calmed down again?  Or should we go another round?"  Nathan's words to Trip, and now Trip's to Jonathan.

            Jonathan said nothing, just stared and shook his head.

            "Okay.  Good."  Trip felt relief at the response; some of those shots had come awfully close.

            "What…the hell… was that?"  Jonathan finally regained his voice, but not his breath.

            "You wanted a fight -- I didn't want to get hurt.  I also didn't want to hurt you back.  I probably _could_ hurt you, but I don't want to.  It's called control."  He didn't bother telling Jonathan what Nathan had told him:  that he'd been controlling both of them.  Every block, every opportunity to strike not taken forced the aggressor into a different direction, physically and mentally.  "I had it, you didn't, and that's why I won.  And you didn't lose."

            He gave Jonathan a few moments to wrap his thoughts around the idea.  It had taken Trip a lot longer to figure out even pieces of it; he didn't have near the talent for it Nathan had.  Then again, even at sixteen Nathan had been the most in control son-of-a-bitch Trip had ever met.  He could probably outdo T'Pol on that.

            _And I always thought that win-win was an illusion_.  No matter what the game, there was a victor and a defeated.  It had been Nathan who'd taught him that sometimes the best way was not to play to win, but simply not to lose.

            _Of course_.  Another strategy began to form in his mind, a way out of this mess.  Long term, admittedly, which meant he still had to focus on the situation in front of him.  _Just like football.  One play at a time_.

            "You _aren't_ like Charles.  He'd have come back after that first punch and ended it.  It's one of his favourite sayings:  'Put the son-of-a-bitch down, and make sure he never gets up.'"  Jonathan extended his right hand, a gesture of apology.

            Trip took it.  "In the appropriate circumstances, that works.  Like if the other guy really is going to do you damage.  I didn't think that's what you wanted."  It had been a risk, if Jonathan really had been out to get him…  "It took me forever to figure that out, myself."

            Jonathan shook his head again, but this time a smile began to form.  "Big chance you took."

            Trip shrugged.  "I've taken bigger.  It's one of the reasons everybody thinks I'm crazy.  I run a lot on instinct.  I also tend to use a lot more right-brain logic."

            "What?"  The sudden left turn seemed to leave Jonathan in the dust.

            He explained.  "I had a programming teacher in high-school who dreaded the thought of me going on to higher-level stuff.  He would look at my programs and swear up down and sideways that they wouldn't work, and they always did."  Gina identified it further, saying that if a computer understood the process, then it _had_ to be logical, even if other people didn't get it.  "Since generally the logic centres are on the left side of the brain, I figure mine's coming from the right/creative side."

            "You know, that is probably the most 'right-brained-logic' explanation of anything I've ever heard.  I don't think I understood a word of it."  _Now_ Jonathan sounded like Archer:  that dry humour response to one of Trip's wild statements.

            Trip burst out laughing; familiarity felt good.  "See?  And people wonder why I have communication problems.  Actually, though, I heard that's what made the difference in Einstein – he had a massive amount of connections between his right and left brain, about twice as many as normal.  Nobody understood him, either."

            "So what?  Now you think you're a genius?"  Jonathan arched an eyebrow, clearly not believing.

            "Hey.  I could be.  You could be looking at the reincarnation of Gianlorenzo Bernini here, for all you know."  Trip _knew_ he'd cause Jonathan's brain to throw a track on that one, hardly anyone remembered Bernini.

            "Who?"

            "Gianlorenzo Bernini.  1598-1680.  He pretty much created the whole Baroque sculpture style; he also designed St. Peter's square and the colonnade.  My mom wanted me to be an architect, and I fell in love with his work."  He wasn't sure _why_ Bernini in particular, and not the better knowns like Michaelangelo, or even DaVinci.  Just… "Maybe it's the way some of his structures are so awe inspiring.  You don't look at it and say 'Oh, pretty.'  You look at it and feel _humble_."

            **_And anyone who can humble the great Trip Tucker is a master indeed._  **

            "It must be something else."  Jonathan's sentiments echoed Inner-Charles'. "Charles is an artist – that's one of the things that attracted me to him at first – he draws everything."

            Trip shrugged. "I don't do it so much, anymore.  Photography, yeah, but with days like this, I just don't have time to sit down and draw and do it justice.  What with days like this, I'm lucky if I find time to click a shutter."  He missed it -- now that he thought about it -- time just spent alone with paper and charcoal, creating something out of nothing.

            Jonathan drew a finger across Trip's cheek, a light, gentle caress.  "You should work on that.  Make some time."  His hand dropped and he seemed to collect himself.  "But right now, I think we should get going."  He suited action to words and headed off down the hall again.

            _Okay_.  Trip looked to Kaci for support, but she had nothing to say.  "Not a word of this when things get back to normal, all right?  We'll just keep it to ourselves…" He didn't know how to end it. He spoke softly, so Jonathan couldn't hear, didn't want to hurt the guy's feelings.  _Not that I've got anything against that sort of thing, but it's just not_ me.

            Thankfully, Kaci nodded.  Good.  Because if the Engineering crew ever found out…  It wasn't Bryson and Higgens he was concerned about.  _If Hess ever finds out you got flustered, she's never going to let you live it down_.  Hess.  The closest he'd ever come to matching Toby, personality wise.  He'd taken a lot of flak for insisting on her over more experienced officers, but he'd stood his ground, unable to think of leaving her behind.  Sure, they fought over things, but he hadn't wanted a sycophant.  _I need someone to question my decisions from time to time, just to make sure I'm on the right track_.  Not only that, but she could read his handwriting.

            _{Now her, I like.}_  Yeah, Toby would like Hess, if only because of Hess' tendency to put Trip in his place.  _{You're looking to save this Jonathan guy, aren't you?}_

            "Save?"  When had that come up?  They were all in the same danger, weren't they?

            _{Like I did with you, idiot.  Well, Nathan helped, but you never would have met him if I hadn't pulled you out of your self-imposed little exile.  You think there's hope for that guy if he starts thinking for himself, don't you?}_

            Trip blinked.  He hadn't thought of that, but it fit.  Trust Toby to put it together.  "I don't know.  Maybe I feel some responsibility for him, since my doppelganger helped screw him up."

            _{You might want to quit talking like that… you're going to scare people.}_  Toby grinned, began skipping along beside him.  _{You're only supposed to know one syllable words and technobabble.  Trip Tucker doesn't know German.}_

            "Trip Tucker knows horror movies.  It's a classic character, one of the crazies."

            "What?"  Jonathan had dropped back do join them, caught the last bit.  "One of the crazy what?"

            What the hell, it felt good to be having a conversation again about something other than life and death.  "Haven't you ever noticed that all the classic horror movie characters are metaphors for things we don't want to talk about?"  Toby was right on one thing, this was a discussion that would blow Malcolm and his 'Americans read nothing but comic books' right out of the water.  "Mental illness is a big one.   Go ahead, pick a character, and I'll match it up."

            "Okay."  Jonathan seemed willing to go along with this game, possibly intrigued by the subject, possibly just by the fact that the dissertation was Trip's.  "Vampires…  Dracula."

            "Too easy."  Trip smirked.  "Psychopaths.  No soul, no conscience.  Highly charming and seductive – both classic descriptions of a psychopathic personality – but no remorse about any of it."

            "Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde."

            Trip groaned.  "Give me something a little challenging, will you?  Dissociative Identity Disorder.  Two personalities, one body, and neither one knows what the other is up to except by reading the others' journals."

            "I thought that it was schizophrenia."

            "No.  Schizophrenia is closer to Dr. Frankenstein than Dr. Jekyll.  Believe me, I know.  Schizophrenia with obsessions."

            "Wasn't Frankenstein a zombie?"  Well, there was a mistake Archer would never make.  Not in dealing with a fanatic like Trip.  In fact, Trip was sure Archer had done some side research just to keep up.

            "No.  Frankenstein was the _doctor_.  The monster was only referred to as 'The Creature'.  He never got a name.  Hollywood screwed it up later."  The movies might be Trip's favourites, but he was a purist.  "Zombies, on the other hand, it's not quite catatonia, more like a severe dissociative state.  No conscious thought exists."

            "Wow."  Clearly Jonathan had never considered the depth possible in horror movies before.  "And I thought it was all about… well… scaring people."

            "And nothing's scarier than what we don't understand.  And nobody understands crazy, but we're all afraid it's somehow catching."  Which was ridiculous; but still the prejudice held.

            "I suppose you've even got one for werewolves, right?"

            Trip's expression darkened.  "Oh,yeah.   How the hell do you think people explained Bi-polar?"

            Jonathan started to apologise, realising he'd opened a touch subject again.

            Trip held up a hand.  "It's okay.  I started it."  He sighed.  "It's all there, though.  The cycles, the superhuman strength, bizarre animalistic behaviour…  At the start of the disease the incidences are spread far enough apart that most people think it's mood swings, or they don't connect them.  Without treatment…  Have you ever heard of the term rapid cycling?"

            Jonathan shook his head.

            "It's a latter stage.  Manic and depressive stages start to come even faster.  Like the full-moon thing with a werewolf.  Instead of maybe one or two episodes a year, you can end up with one or two episodes a _month_." Last he'd heard, James was at that point, and self-medicating with alcohol.  That had been six months before they left -- for all he knew, his brother was dead by now.  He'd told his family that he didn't want more news of James; that it hurt too much. 

            Jonathan looked impressed.  "You sound like you could've been a psychologist instead of an engineer."

            "No way."  Trip crossed his arms defensively, pulling in.  "I've had enough up close and personal experience for several lifetimes.  I know it can't be fixed, so I'm not crazy enough to try."

            "Not like engineering." Jonathan nodded, understanding.  "Where you can just swap out a part or re-write a line of code, and the problem's gone."

            "A little simplistic, but yeah."  Trip stared off into the distance, thinking.  "I like my problems more concrete.  You can't rewire the human brain."

            "Mmn." 

            The rest of the journey to Engineering passed without interruption; Jonathan seemed more concerned than relieved.

            "Well, we are dealing with billions and billions of universes here," Trip reasoned, "And if you look at all the trouble _we_ had getting NX out here, then there must be even _more_ where – for some reason or another – it never happened at all.  And I don't see them as being stacked up alongside each other so that only the nearby ones blend at first.  It's more like…"  He searched for an image, some way to describe the picture that emerged in his brain, "… spaghetti.  Everything's all tangled up together in one big mass, and it's all starting to mush together, but you don't know what's combining with what at this point."

            "And you know this, how?"  Sceptical was the only word to describe Jonathan's look, and Trip couldn't blame him.  But he _wasn't_ going to confess breaking through a security seal in the name of research.

            _Yeah, that'll sound good.  "I broke into a place that you specifically and clearly told me was 'off limits' with 'absolutely no exceptions' and read a bunch of things I had no right seeing, and that you forbid me to access, in no uncertain terms."_  On the other hand, he hadn't understood much of it, he felt like Leonardo DaVinci – brilliant as he was – looking over the plans for a warp reactor.  He'd figured out enough though, to give him a basic handle on things.

            **_So at least you can get an idea when Daniels is handing you a snow job._**

            Had that been his motivation?  _I thought I was just curious._  He grinned, coming up with an answer that wasn't, and that even Jonathan would know was a fake.  "H.G. Wells.  Man was a genius."  He moved away from Jonathan, a grin twitching at his lips.

            "Uh, huh."  Jonathan didn't push it; his eyes twinkled with humour.  "I suppose next you're going to tell me that you learned programming from Isaac Asimov."

            Trip cracked up.  "Well, I was going to say Jules Verne.  But yeah, Asimov's as good an answer as any."

            "I suppose if I order you, you're going to plead the fifth."

            _You can't order me_.  Things were going too well to say it though; instead he let the grin spread a little wider.  "Yup.  Definitely on the grounds that it may incriminate me."  He bent back down over his work, hoping Jonathan wouldn't see the flush creeping across his face.  Why was he so embarrassed about something that everybody knew he did?  Not the details of course – it would be instant court-martial if the brass knew _everything_ he'd done – but the fact that he _was_ a break and enter artist.

            "You're a bad boy, Trip."  Jonathan shook a finger at him, but stayed smiling.

            "Mischievous."  _Am I _flirting_?_  It certainly felt like it: the familiar give and take banter; the verbal joust.  He dismissed the thought; it just didn't work.  _We're just acting like friends_.  He hoped Jonathan saw it that way and didn't mistake friendly conversation for something more.

            "Um hmn."  Fortunately the conversation thread stopped there.  Jonathan seemed content to work on the assignments Trip gave him.  Still, every now and then the older man glanced his way, as though looking for something.

**… … … … … … … **

            Hours passed; repair work moved slowly, too slowly for Trip's comfort.  He found himself skipping things, then having to go back to fix them. Once he even found himself working on a repair he'd just finished.  His mood worsened with every error, until he found himself barking at even the smallest interruption.

            "Look...."  Jonathan spread his hands in a gesture of peace as Trip snarled.  "…maybe we just need some rest.  It's been a long day, especially for you."

            "We may not have time to rest," Trip snapped, "and I've probably had more sleep than the rest of you combined."  He bent back to his work, swearing as he missed a connection and dripped solder on his fingers.

            Jonathan took Trip's shoulders and eased him away from the panel.  "It hasn't been enough, Trip.  Not with what you've been through.  You need rest. We all do."  He spoke in low, soothing tones.  "I know you want to fix everything, make it all better, but you're not going to be able to do that if you can't think straight.  You're just as likely to blow us up as save us."

            "I know what I'm doing."  Any decent engineer could do these repairs in his sleep; he didn't need to think clearly.  He tried to shake Jonathan off, but the older man's grip -- though gentle -- remained strong.

            "I know you do, Trip.  You're the best.  But you're only human and you need your sleep."  Tenderly Jonathan reached down and removed the soldering gun from Trip's unresisting hand.  "We'll take turns keeping watch, just to make sure nothing happens.  If there's a problem, we'll wake you.  I promise.  Please?"

            Realising that any further protest would be futile, Trip allowed himself to be led into a corner.  Jonathan folded up one of the discarded jackets for use as a pillow, promising again to wake Trip if any problems arose.

            "You better."  Trip sank down to the floor, his body gratefully accepting his surrender.  After all, it wouldn't be long -- they'd wake him up soon.


	8. Light and Shadow part 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own most of these characters. This is for entertainment purposes only.**

****

**WARNING:**

The following chapter contains material that may not be suitable for all readers, reader discretion is advised.

Chapter 6: Light and Shadow pt2

Make it go away, or make it better

Isn't that what love's supposed to do

Make it go away, or make it better

'Cause I would do either one for you…

--- Holly Cole

Slash warning

The turbo-lift hummed, taking him downward. Leaning against the wall, he caught sight of his reflection in the polished metal, a complete stranger staring back at him. Oh the lines and shadows were all too familiar but he didn't recognise the person at all. _Not this one again_. He closed his eyes, then opened them, but the image remained the same: an identical stranger, his _doppelganger_.

The door opened -- someone stepped in. He turned to face the newcomer, smiled. "Hey, John." He waited until the doors closed and they were between decks before he punched a control and the hum stopped. "Looks like we're stuck."

"You _are_ a bad boy, Trip." Jonathan stepped closer, ran a hand down the side of Trip's face. "You know we've got a staff meeting." He leaned closer, kissed gently.

"Later." Trip reached up, pulled Jonathan closer still. "Right now I've got another 'meeting' in mind." He kissed back, harder. His hands slid over Jonathan's chest, across his back, down his arms. "Mmmn. I love it like this. The risk."

"I know you do." Jonathan dipped his head, kissed Trip's neck then returned to his mouth. "And I love you."

"Mmmn." Trip allowed himself to be pressed against the wall, cold metal fighting the heat in his skin. Jonathan's fingers ran down the front of Trip's uniform, teasing.

"Still, we have to be quick. Duty calls."

"Always the captain. All work and no play…" He unzipped the front of his coveralls and let them fall down to his waist.

"No one could accuse you of that…" Jonathan's hand contacted bare skin now, electricity crawled along it.

"I…" The wall shifted, bubbling black. Trip screamed as it poured out around him, pulling him in. He stared back at Jonathan who backed away in horror. He could feel himself disappearing, becoming part of the wall, his flesh dissolving away. "Help me!" He fought but couldn't break the hold. He knew what came next, didn't know, but knew. Tears filled his eyes, he took one last deep breath, and screamed.


	9. Light and Shadow part 3

Disclaimer: I still don't own a lot of these characters... and wouldn't know what to do with them if I did.

Chapter 6: Light and Shadows pt 3

> Make it go away, or make it better
> 
> Isn't that what love's supposed to do
> 
> Make it go away, or make it better
> 
> 'Cause I would do either one for you…

--- Holly Cole

"Trip. Wake up!"

He screamed, his body stiff and shaking. He couldn't see, couldn't breathe, couldn't move. Couldn't think. Just screamed because there was nothing else for the horror, for what he couldn't remember.

"Trip. Shhh. It's okay… it's just a nightmare…" Jonathan sat beside him, holding him close. "It's over now… It's okay… it's going to be okay… Nothing's going to hurt you…"

Slowly the scream faded to a series of whimpers. Cold sweat drenched Trip's body; he could smell his own fear. Slowly Jonathan began to rock him, stroking his hair and face. Soothing.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Trip shook his head but didn't pull away. The last thing he wanted was to be alone and unprotected. "I can't remember it, anyway. I can never remember it." He cried, burying his head in Jonathan's side. "I just know I'm scared. So scared."

"I know." Jonathan continued to rock him; the motion comforting. Trip wrapped his own arms around Jonathan, clinging to something stable, solid. He felt so helpless, so small.

Jonathan kissed the top of Trip's head, petted his hair. "It's all okay. No one's going to hurt you now."

Was that it? Was that the fear? _I don't know. I just don't know._ What memory could be bad enough for Trip to want to bury it, though? _I remember my brother trying to kill me, I remember wanting to kill myself. I remember the crazies, I remember cutting myself to pieces, so, what could possibly be so horrible that _I _would have to repress it?_ He could feel his heart slowing, his breathing evening out. "I'm sorry." The words came out muffled, his face still pressed into Jonathan's uniform.

"Don't be. Hey." Jonathan lifted Trip's chin and looked down into his eyes. "You've got nothing to be sorry for. You had a bad dream. That's all." He smiled and wiped away a latecoming tear. "It's not the first time."

_How could he know that?_ Trip didn't tell anyone about his nightmares, only a handful of people knew: those who'd spent the night, and heard the screams. Usually he woke alone, sharing his fear only with the darkness. "Charles?"

Jonathan nodded. "He has them too, every now and then. It takes me hours to get him back to sleep. Like you, he says he can't remember them. Just that it starts out as another dream, a good dream…"

_Like me_.

"…then something happens and he can't remember the rest." Jonathan released Trip's chin; Trip let his head fall against Jonathan's shoulder. "There's a name he mentioned once… a Danny…"

Trip snorted. "Don't give me that. I _know_ what happened with Danny Malone, at least for me. I remember it just fine."

"Charles won't tell me. He just said it was bad."

"Bad enough." Trip closed his eyes, taking comfort in the darkness. "Bad enough that I set myself on fire."

[ "Hey, punk." It could only be Danny, big, ugly Danny, who thought that Trip was a small sized punching bag, the perfect practice target. "Come on, I want to show you something."

"No thanks." Last encounter, Danny'd pushed him down the stairs. He _thought_ he'd solved it by making Danny think that he – Trip – was crazy, but now…

"I wasn't _asking_, punk." Danny grabbed him, threw him towards the boy's washroom.

_Run_. He didn't get far, only a couple of steps before the bigger boy grabbed him again.

"Not so fast, punk. I've got a problem here, and you're gonna fix it."

_Uh-uh_. He wasn't the only small kid in school, and he'd heard a lot of the rumours. Danny Malone traded in pain and humiliation, nothing less. So far, only being friends with Toby had saved Trip the worst of it. Toby had threatened to cut pieces off, and Danny believed her. But…

"Girlfriend ain't here today, is she, punk? It's just you and me for all the fun. I've been waiting to get you, punk. She couldn't stay around forever."

"So you're afraid of a _girl_." Okay, Toby wasn't a regular girl; Trip would be the first to testify to that. Instead he tried to channel some of her personality, make it his. Intimidate Danny right back.

"I don't do girls, punk. That's all." Danny hauled him inside, his grip painfully tight. " 'Specially not crazy, ugly ones like that."

Trip squirmed, trying to get a shot in. _It's one thing to hurt me;, it's another to insult my friend_. Unfortunately Danny held him at arm's length, too far away to do anything.

Two boys looked up from their conversation by the sink, saw who it was and stopped.

"Beat it."

They bolted, glad not to be today's victim. They'd never remember anything, not even that they'd been there. _No one's going to help me_. He caught sight of himself in the mirror, terrified eyes staring back at him. Eyes that changed as he watched, hardening. Going from the eyes of someone who'd do anything to not have this happen -- to the eyes of someone willing to do _absolutely_ anything.

The vision disappeared as Danny shoved him to his knees, then spun him around on the cold tile until Trip's eyes were level with Danny's crotch. "Now, punk, here's how it's going to go. You do everything I say, and you don't get hurt… much. You don't, and I'm going to enjoy myself, that much more. Do you understand?" Danny had so much faith in his power that he didn't _expect_ disobedience, didn't see Trip's hand sliding into his jeans' pocket.

"Yeah, I understand." _Not_ a scared kid's voice. An adult's voice, cold and cynical. "But it ain't gonna happen." A single word dominated his mind. _Gambit_.

"What do you mean 'ain't gonna happen', punk? It's gonna happen 'cause I say so." Danny smacked Trip's head, hard. "What ya gonna do about it?"

"This." In a single motion Trip pulled the lighter out and ignited it. Held the flame to the pulled out tail of his shirt until it caught.

"Holy fuck." Danny let him go, backed away then fled. He expected violence back, or capitulation but couldn't understand self-sacrifice.

Trip fell against the floor, rolling back and forth on the tile until the pain stopped spreading. He felt bits of his skin pulling away to stick on the floor, creating an unholy mess. It smelled oddly like a barbecue in here, like someone had thrown pork steaks on the grill. He stood up, not believing what he saw.

The entire upper left side of his torso was blackened and bleeding. It felt cold, not hot. The side of his shirt was gone. The fire hadn't moved too quickly though, somehow it left his face and hair unsinged. He heard yelling and running footsteps, then nothing more as he passed out. ]

"He never bothered me after that. In fact, he pretty much stopped picking on kids altogether. Didn't want to run the risk of getting another crazy one, I guess."

"I guess." Jonathan craned his neck to look at Trip, who hadn't moved. "Why in the hell…"

"Do you know what a gambit is?" Trip hadn't fully understood then, only figured it out later. Looking back, it was a brilliant move. Almost Toby worthy.

"You mean like in chess? Sacrificing a pawn to obtain a better position?"

"Uh-huh. I was the pawn. Or rather my skin was. If I'd have gone along with him, I'd have just been setting myself up for more. If I'd fought, same thing. I figured he'd run, quick, and I'd have time to put it out."

"You could have set _him_ on fire."

Trip sighed. "And then he would've come looking for revenge. And I'd get it even worse. By doing it to _myself_… He realised how far I was willing to go. What I was willing to sacrifice to escape him. And it was more than he was willing to demand. Not only that, but if I could do that to myself, then what might I do to him?"

"What happened to you? Surely they didn't just let you go…"

"I got three days suspension for playing with fire. The principal said I was lucky to avoid an arson charge. I never told them what really happened." Never told Toby either, though she'd always suspected something. Every time after that when he'd visit, he'd catch her hiding the matches.

Jonathan hugged him tighter. "You are crazy -- you know that? You are crazier-scary than anyone I could ever imagine, and I can't think of anyone else I'd rather have saving us."

"Thanks." Trip disentangled himself and stood up. Better to pretend he remembered nothing of his dreams; better to pretend he wasn't a lucid dreamer. He envied Charles now: having someone there to hold him when the night turned ugly. And from everything Trip had heard, the man didn't deserve it. _What did you do to get my stability -- the comfort I've always wanted? And you treat it like it's shit -- like it's worth nothing. You have _no_ idea what you're throwing away. You're just a selfish little bastard_. People called him a playboy; they didn't see that he _wanted_ domesticity, that it was the women who kept leaving _him_. He'd about given up, despite what he'd told Malcolm in Shuttle Pod One.

_No Charles Tucker IV, barring a miracle_. He could never figure out what he did wrong: why no one wanted to be with him for very long. Maybe it was because the Trip Tucker of reality wasn't the Trip Tucker of the image. Maybe, when they found out he was a bundle of conflicts behind those good looks and bright smile, maybe that was when they decided the bargain was a bad buy.

**_Then it's a bad deal all round. You've got enough misery without buying yourself more_.**

He headed over to where Kaci sat with her head bowed over a panel, working. "Your turn." He gestured towards the corner, then looked at her work to see where to take over. "You might want to replace the pillow though."

She shook her head, pushed him out of the way. I don't need to.

"Kaci…" He didn't want to order her to sleep, couldn't blame her if she felt uncomfortable in his presence now.

She laid a hand on his arm, shook her head. No. Instead, she tapped a couple of keys on another panel. _"…why you look so sad, the tears aren't in your eyes, come on and come to me now…"_

"…don't be ashamed to cry, let me see you through, because I've seen the dark side too.." her musical voice blended perfectly with the singer's. "… when the night falls on you, you don't know what to do, nothing you confess…"

"…I'll stand by you…" he joined her on the chorus, ignoring Jonathan's startled glance. He knew Jonathan couldn't hear the third member of their trio, and felt sorry for the other man. Toby's soprano wasn't something to be missed. He didn't sing all that often, didn't trust his voice to hold some of the notes. He realised that it was also probably the first time Jonathan had heard _anything_ from Kaci, remembering his own adjustment period.

_So what if they're someone else's words_. All oaths were when it came to that -- all formal ones anyway. He needed the promise here; needed to give it and receive it. _We're in this together. We get out together_.

They finished to a strained round of applause. "Just when I think I've got you figured out…"

"Never." Trip grabbed the thermos he'd brought down from the mess hall and poured himself a cup of coffee. "_I_ don't even have me figured out, so you, buddy, don't stand a chance." He took a sip -- let it warm him. "So how close are we now to checking out the computer? What are our interfaces like?"

"Physically, they're ready to go." Jonathan told him, "But we haven't been willing to risk setting off your security program. It seems to have scrambled everything."

_She wouldn't_. Of course she would. He booted up the system, and saw that it had indeed been scrambled. Not only that but he had a nasty feeling… "We better hope I can figure out that code."

Jonathan's eyes widened. "You mean it's different?"

"Uh huh. Not only that, but everything's encrypted. Rotating clear text. You can't brute-force it, even if we had the time." Technically a rotating clear text code _could_ be broken, but only if the computer doing the code breaking entered the right sequence _at the right time_. RCT meant that you couldn't just try every code until one worked…A computer only knew it had the right code when the scramble dissolved into something recognisable. But if it always changed…

**_Like Ruby's little game_**. Yeah, he'd fallen for that one, all right. Even when Gina _had_ pointed out that little logical flaw: if no one but Ruby knew the right names, all she had to do if someone guessed them was to change the names. He'd still hung around, though, hoping that – this time – it would be different.

**_Yeah, right_**. Like it ever would be. Sometimes he felt like he could be the last man on the planet and his current whoever would find someone else to be interested in.

Worse, even if they _could_ use brute force on this puppy, they _still_ had the problem of the computer knowing it had cracked it. Computers broke code by trying a combination, checking the result, then trying another if the first didn't work. They'd talked about it one night -- over coffee and biscotti --pure theory at the time.

[ "How many transactions can your modern computer do per second, Charles?" That quirk of hers, he couldn't get her to call him anything else.

"I don't know," he answered, "Billions. Trillions."

She nodded. "Per second. How long is ten seconds? Could you wait ten seconds?"

"Easy." He sat and counted them off silently. "It's not that long."

"Ah, but to a computer? Tens of trillions of potential transactions not happening? And when searching for a 4096 bit key? Can you afford a ten second wait after each trial?"

"Holy shit." ]

The implications had staggered him, still did. Even if the delay secret got out… no one could crack the code anyway, not in time for it to be useful. 3.64 times ten to the 13019th power. That's how many possible combinations existed – more than the human mind could comprehend. Running at full speed it would take long enough to crack the code but if they had to institute a ten second delay between each try…_It's an uncrackable code._ Throw in a rotating cleartext and the impossible became… _I doubt even Daniels' people could break it_.

Well, there had to be a way of getting into the computer, of letting this monster program know he wanted to shut it down. "Have you tried anything?" He prayed they hadn't. He had no idea what Gina had built in as a failsafe.

"No. We thought you were the best to figure it out." Jonathan leaned in over Trip's shoulder. "Where did you get this thing, anyway?"

"From a friend. I'm beta-testing it for her." Not that there was any likelihood of it appearing on the market any time soon. He reached for the console, and caught a flicker of movement in the reflection.

"Hey." He picked up a spanner from the desk and spun around. This time, at least the guy was different, and dressed in something that more closely resembled clothes rather than a something from a plastic blower with hiccups.

"Mr. Tucker?" The man didn't move, but a smile brightened his dark features. He wore a red and black tunic over a black turtleneck and black uniform style pants. And in his hand…

_No._ Trip mouthed the word in his mind, seeing and refusing to believe. A small rectangle held reverently between the fingers, a protective casing over a plastic card. This was _worse_ than a Temporal Agent. "Go away."


	10. The Rules of Stubborn

Disclaimer: These are not my characters. This story is for entertainment purposes only.

Author's Note: Stuff between these is from Jonathan's point of view.

Chapter 7: The Rules of Stubborn

Don't like being told what to do

--- Trooper

"Tucker? Charles Tucker the Third?" The man's delight increased as Trip spoke. A surprising change, but -- if Trip's suspicions were correct -- hardly a welcome one.

"No, sorry. Bad case of mistaken identity." He could sense the others looking at him and not one of them with a clue as to what was going on. Except for Toby who knew _exactly_ what this was all about, and was laughing her ass off. _Little witch_.

The man looked down at the card, then up at Trip.

"Trust me." Trip pointed at the card. "That man is an impostor. I have no idea how he came to be using my name, or why we look so similar, but that is most definitely not me." Hopefully this man had no way of detecting Toby, because she laughed harder. _And I didn't think that was possible._

"Please. Just allow me to introduce myself, Mr. Tucker. My name is Benjamin Sisko, and…"

"…and you're from the future. Thank you very much… I've already heard… it was nice to meet you… now goodbye." Trip looked for a way out that didn't put him too near Sisko. This man was more than an interfering nuisance, he was a _fan_.

"Yes, I'm from the future, but…"

"Like I said, I already got the lecture. Not supposed to be here… destruction of the universe… blah, blah, blah… You know, frankly I'm getting sick and tired of people thinking that I'm a slow learner."

Sisko turned to Jonathan instead. "Have you any idea who this man is?" Oh yes, definitely a fan.

Jonathan shook his head. "I guess not. I _thought_ he was chief engineer of Enterprise. Are you saying he's someone else?"

_Score one for the home team_. Either Jonathan was incredibly dense, or – like Archer on occasion – incredibly sarcastic.

"This," Sisko pointed to Trip, "is one of the greatest pitchers in the entire history of baseball. Ninety percent of his games were wins. He had a consistent 100-110 pitch…"

"Miles per hour." Trip clarified, not bothering to fight anymore. "About 160-175 kilometres per hour."

"… and pitched three perfect games in a _row_."

"My last ones. I figured I might as well make it a good finish." He leaned back against the wall and rolled his eyes. Just his luck, _somewhere_ along the line he _had_ to run into a baseball nut.

"Not only that," Sisko warmed to his lecture, putting his arm around Jonathan's shoulders and gesturing towards Trip as though showing Jonathan a work of art. "You've heard the term 'switch hitter', right?"

"He means baseball." Sisko's words had set Toby off on another set of the giggles, which was something that Trip's head didn't need right now. "Can bat left or right, depending on the pitcher."

"Well, Mr. Tucker here was a – for lack of a better term – 'switch pitcher'."

"He means I could throw almost as well with my left as with my right." Okay, so most people couldn't, that still didn't make him a god.

**_Except to the nutballs. After all, statistics never lie._** Inner-Charles didn't like it any more than Trip.

"He could've gone on to anything. Had a top athletic scholarship, pros scouting him, the works. And then one day he just quit -- disappeared off the sensors. Nobody could figure out why, or where he'd gone to."

Trip waved. "Right here. I ran away and joined the circus. God. It's not like I changed my name or anything." _And people wonder why I quit_… "Look. I'm sure you didn't come all the way here just to get an autograph -- no matter _how_ good you think I might have been. So what's your story?"

"Not one you'd believe." Sisko's smile disappeared.

"Try me." After all, he'd left ten impossible things in the dust _hours_ ago. How impossible could Sisko's story be?

Sisko told him.

"You're right. I don't believe it. You're telling me that you're some 'Chosen One' who can go backward and forward to any point in history -- that it's all one moment in time to you, and that you _still_ have no idea what's going on." Great. Bad enough to be dealing with people who thought they knew about the past -- now he had a messianic baseball-nut without a clue on his hands. "So. Which would you prefer? Storage closet or crew quarters? I can fix you up in either."

"Excuse me?" Apparently Sisko didn't know everything because he seemed completely ignorant as to the fate of his forerunners.

"I've taken to locking people up. You, I'm giving a choice. Where's it going to be?"

"Mr. Tucker…" The look Sisko gave him clearly said You're crazy.

"Don't 'Mr. Tucker' me. I'm sick and tired of being 'Mr. Tuckered', and 'Commandered' and being told that I haven't got a fucking clue what I'm doing." Trip's patience shattered -- again. That had been one of the reasons he'd quit baseball – not a big one, but one of them – the fact that he didn't relate well to strangers who acted like they knew him. _Nobody knows me_. Not even Archer -- the closest thing he had to a best friend -- knew him that well. The Trip Tucker that Archer knew was the Trip Tucker of the present: the person he had been at and had become since that first meeting. Even Archer didn't know about Toby and she was the single biggest influence in Trip's life. _Without her, there would be no me._

"So stay the fuck out of my way, because I swear to God, the next person who tells me I don't know what I'm doing, is going to find out just how little of a future they actually have." He pointed the spanner at Sisko. "And that includes you, Mister Chosen One."

_{You're actually planning to kill a major figure of an alien planet's religion? That is so cool!}_ Only Toby could find the prospect of homicide amusing. It was the over the top part – he realised – the fact that he'd just threatened a… well… god?

_Small 'g' of course._

**_Naturally. You don't want to get in too far over your head_**.

Sisko muttered something Trip couldn't quite catch, but sounded like "…stubborn engineers…" Then he spoke more loudly. "It's your choice. I can't make you do anything…"

"Goddamn right you can't."

"…But I would appreciate it if you didn't lock me up. For one thing, it would be futile. For another: I promise to stay out of your way. I just want to know one thing."

Oh. Something else the godling didn't know? "What's that?"

"Why did you quit?" Sisko seemed genuinely puzzled, like anyone else who thought that with greatness came obsession. That with the truly gifted came a love for the gift.

"I hated it." Trip knew Sisko wouldn't believe him because nobody believed him. How could he hate something he was so good at, something that came so naturally? How could he give up the chance to be the best? _Just another insane thing about Charles Tucker III._

"You…"

"Hated it." Trip repeated. "I hated every single moment. I hated the fact that they made me play in a DH league because I couldn't hit…"

"DH?" Maybe Jonathan wasn't up on sports. Or at least baseball.

"Designated Hitter." Trip and Sisko chorused.

"I hate that rule. But because I was Mister Pitcher Perfect …" So he'd made up his mind and walked away. Went with an academic scholarship to a smaller school, then on to Starfleet Academy. _And the rest is history_.

**_Ending now, if the doom-and-gloom team is correct_**.

_No_. It still made no sense. Even _Hess_ wouldn't give odds on a non-event across an infinite number of universes. So… it had to be something else, something that none of the others had thought of. _All you have to do is find that hidden angle_. It would have to be something so simple, so obvious that everyone overlooked it. "…it's right there, teasing me."

Both Sisko and Jonathan looked at him oddly now, not privy to the train of thought that broke through his sentences. He ignored them, spinning the spanner around in his fingers, thinking. _What…_

_{Trip? I hate to say this, but there's more people coming this way.}_ Toby tapped him on the shoulder; her icy touch pulled him out of his trance.

"More? Okay. We're going to have to do this from somewhere else. Um… Try and stall them somehow without doing too much damage. Do something poltergeisty or something. I'm sure you'll figure it out."

_{Poltergeisty? What do you think I am, some sort of psychic sexually-repressed teenager?}_

He looked at her – a dead fifteen-year-old tomboy – and grinned. "Yes, actually I do."

She sniffed and stalked off and he laughed. Sisko looked at him even more strangely now: a man giving orders to thin air. _Hey, at least I don't have a god-complex_.

**_Yet_.**

"Okay. Now. I've answered your question. I want my quid pro quo. Stay out of my way. In fact, go away. The last thing I need right now is some fan-boy distracting me." He tried to say it as insultingly as possible. That – he'd found – was the only way to get rid of the eager beavers. Hurt their feelings enough and they went away thinking you were a jerk. Which was better than being their hero because you could chuck a stupid ball.

"Fine. I suppose…"

With a sigh, Trip snatched the card from Sisko's hand, and scrabbled around on his desk until he found a grease pencil. He scrawled an illegible signature on the card and tossed it back. "Congratulations. There aren't that many."

_{Any more sarcasm on that and we'd have puddles on the floor.}_

"Shut up, Toby."

_{Yes, sir.}_ She vanished again; hopefully she was off to slow the newcomers down.

He stalked off, trailing the others after him. Before he left, he saw Sisko standing there with a bemused grin on his face, staring at the card. _So glad to be of help_.

"That was nice of you," Jonathan waited until the door closed before speaking and Trip couldn't tell if the other man was being sarcastic or not. "Signing the card for him."

"Trust me, it's the only way to shut them up and make them go away. It's just… stupid." Trip sighed, rubbing his head. If this got any stranger… _I'll shoot myself. I swear I'll just shoot myself_.

"Is there anything you're not good at? Aside from people skills that is?" A smile twitched on Jonathan's lips as he looked over sideways at Trip. "Football, baseball, artist, singer, engineer, mountain climber…"

"Well I can't play the piano to save my life. And I'm not much of a mountain climber either." Despite the fact that he'd had to do it more than once. "I mean unless there's a good reason…"

Jonathan shook his head. "Charles would never do it at all. He's afraid of heights. He tries to keep it secret but…"

"So do I." Trip's gaze adjusted to the middle distance as he walked. "Aside from having to get that transponder up high enough to save our lives… I don't mountain climb all that much."

"You mentioned something about falling…"

Trip snorted. "Yeah, why do you think I fell? I went because… because Captain Archer and I had just hit a real rough spot in our friendship – hell, I thought it was over – and it was the first chance we really got to talk away from work. He doesn't… at least I don't _think_ he knows I'm afraid of heights. Maybe now that I've had a near death experience…no… I don't think so. I mention an NDE and he'll probably ask me 'which one?'"

Jonathan laughed. "Yeah, that fits too. I swear Charles has been near death so many times that he has a hall pass. But he's too stubborn to actually die." He paused. "That man could teach stubborn to a Vulcan."

"Not me." Trip acknowledged Jonathan's raised eyebrow with a nod. "I know. Sounds impossible, right? Truth is, it's Archer who taught _me_ the Rules of Stubborn."

"You're kidding me." This time Jonathan said it aloud. "Archer. Taught you. Stubborn."

"Yep." Like that time out in the desert: _"Either drink the water or I'll knock you on your ass and pour it down your throat._" Trip had been willing to give up -- to just lay down and slowly die -- but Archer didn't give him the choice. Later, Archer pulling at him, nagging at him, keeping him out of that oh-so-tempting coma. Other times, too: _making_ Trip keep his EV helmet on, even as Trip suffocated. Cutting through a hallucinogen induced psychosis to keep Trip from shooting T'Pol. "If anybody can make me do something that I don't want to, it's Captain Archer. If he starts planting his feet, I'll give in every time."

"Wow." Jonathan seemed genuinely surprised. "I can't see Tr… Charles giving in for anything."

_He's confusing us again_. Oddly enough, it came at the times when Jonathan identified a difference.

"Maybe I've just learned that there's some things more important than a little pride. Like family and friendship." Therein lay his greatest fear – more than going crazy, more than any heights – the possibility that he would end up utterly and entirely alone. No friends, no family, just himself and his thoughts. _I like my space, but I need to know it's not permanent_.

"You don't want to be alone." Again Jonathan's voice softened and became sympathetic.

Trip nodded. "It scares the crap out of me: that one day I'll wake up and there'll be nobody left to care. Like when Malcolm was writing all those good-bye letters in the shuttlepod… I realised that – aside from my family who would rather remember the good times and didn't need any tearful last thoughts – there was absolutely no one to say goodbye _to_. I don't think my exes would really care all that much and everybody else – like Malcolm said – was on Enterprise. Since we thought that they were already dead…"

"Yet everybody thinks you're so popular." Trip could see Jonathan fighting the urge to reach out and wrap him in another hug.

"Yeah, they do, don't they? Everybody's friend, Charles Tucker the Third. Except… I'm not. I mean, I _know_ a lot of people, but I wouldn't say I was friends with many of them." He could count his actual – breathing -- friends on one hand. Archer. Malcolm. Getting there with Hoshi and Travis. And Hess, of course. Couldn't forget Hess. Other than that… "Like I said: I know them to talk to, but we're not exactly friends."

"Oh." Jonathan cracked his knuckles; a habit he must have picked up from Charles. "When you put it that way, I can see it." He glanced sideways at Trip as though gauging Trip's mood before continuing. "Trip…my Trip is a little shy too."

Trip raised both eyebrows at that one. "Really?"

Jonathan nodded. "I remember when he asked me out. It was…."

**** …Two months since Robinson blew up the prototype, two months of nailbiting and snappishness. Then suddenly the Vulcans packed up and left and the NX-program was back in full swing. _Dad, you'd be proud._ They were so close now. Warp Two had been left in the dust – somehow somebody had found the glitch that kept fouling up the intermix – and Forrest had just announced construction beginning on the first Warp Five starship: _Enterprise_.

Jon walked down the Academy corridor, not really going anywhere, so in no big rush to get there. He heard running feet behind him and ignored it as being someone who _was_ in a hurry to get somewhere.

"Commander! Wait up!" A lithe blond dynamo pulled up alongside him, and slowed down to match his pace.

"Lieutenant Tucker. Please, it's Jon." He slowed his own gait to make it less awkward for the smaller man to keep up. "I think we've known each other long enough for that."

An odd look flickered across the lieutenant's face but Jon couldn't quite decipher it. "Jon. Right. Trip. I…"

Jon smiled. "I know. You were just being so formal, that…"

Trip waved him off. " 'Sokay. Really." He seemed keyed up, almost to the point of being jumpy.

_Uh-oh_. Somehow the prospect of a jumpy Trip Tucker was a little worrying. From what Jon had been able to tell, the guy had two modes: either happy or ready to take your head off. Nervous was a new one.

"Anyway…I was wondering…Do you wanna go somewhere and getta drink?" The last sentence came out too fast, as though Trip were afraid that if he didn't get it all out at once he wouldn't get it out at all.

Jon smiled, bemused. "Okay. 602 good for you?"

Trip's eyes darted around. "Um. Actually. I was hoping for somewhere else. I've had about enough of this academy shit for one day."

"Okay." Well that explained some of it. Trip had probably gotten another dressing down and just needed to spout off at somebody. It seemed like the lieutenant was always managing to upset _someone_ in authority, just simply by being himself. They'd become friends – if not good friends – since that first day when Trip had come charging out of the second prototype to take on whomever had decided to insult the engine. But one look at Tucker and the way he flirted with the ladies…no. This was definitely stuck as a platonic friendship, no matter how good looking the guy was.

Jon suggested a place and Trip nodded. "Sounds good. About seven?"

"Seven." Jon agreed. He noticed how a lot of the tension had disappeared. Not all of it, but enough to let Trip speak full sentences. _Too bad.: he's kind of cute like that_. After all, there was no rule that said a guy couldn't look…

He showed up at seven to find Trip already there. Dressed a little more neatly than normal, though still in jeans, and jumpy again. _What the hell?_ Trip had scored them a booth in the back corner where they could talk, relatively undisturbed. _It must be bad, this time_.

They ordered and Trip knocked his bourbon back in a single swallow before ordering another. He looked at Jon almost apologetically, "Sorry. I just…"

"It's okay. It looks like you had a rough day." Jon sipped at his beer while they waited for Trip's second drink to arrive, noticing how quiet his normally talkative companion seemed. In fact, Jon had to carry most of the conversation, keeping it on light topics until Trip could get around to his real problem.

"Jon… are you gay?" Again the sense that the words had been blurted out simply in an attempt to get them said.

"What? What kind of a question…"

Trip half-stood and leaned across the table and kissed him, answering in a way that no words could. It lasted about a second before the younger man dropped down again and stared at his drink. He'd gone entirely red and was actually shaking. "I'm sorry. That was stupid. I…" He made a move to slide out of the booth and Jon put a hand on his arm to stop him.

"No. No. Don't." With his other hand, Jon reached out and caught Trip's cheek and turned the embarrassed face towards his. He returned the kiss gently, making it last longer this time. When he broke contact he found himself starting into a pair of wide, astonished eyes framed by thick, sandy lashes. _Funny I never noticed those before_. It gave Trip a delicate look -- so at odds with his tough-guy persona. "Yeah, I am."

"I…I wasn't sure. I mean I thought I saw you looking at me once or twice…but you know how it can be." Trip licked his lips and cracked his knuckles, and once again his eyes couldn't stay still. "I mean… I…I hoped. But you've never… I mean you haven't…"

"Hey. Despite what some people say, it's nothing to be ashamed of." Trip seemed like a crush-stricken teenager rather than the confident hot-head of normal. _And here I thought _nothing_ could scare him_.

"I'm not." Trip straightened suddenly and pulled a little away. Defensiveness sparked in his eyes. "I also knew I could get in a lot of trouble if you weren't. I've known about me for a long time, since back when I was in high-school. But you… I didn't know _what_ you were. Aside from a senior officer, that is."

Which brought it's own set of complications. "Well, I'm not in your direct chain of command, so that shouldn't be too much of a problem on its own." A slight smile played on his lips. _This_ was the Trip Tucker he was used to. Combative. _He uses that anger to hide his feelings_, Jon suddenly realised. If he could push other people away…

_I'm not going anywhere_. His world had just turned upside down in the best way possible. From all indications Trip wasn't just _physically_ attracted to him, there was genuine emotion there. A compliment to all of those feelings of his own that had been growing for two months – all the feelings he'd pushed aside during drinks at the 602 and coffee in the Academy cafeteria. He remembered the jealousy he'd felt watching Trip giggle with an ensign, as he teased her about her hair. That jealousy seemed so silly now, knowing what he knew. _All the time I've been falling in love with you_… it seemed Trip had been feeling the same way. And both of them too unsure of the other to say anything. "I'm glad you did this. Really. The truth is…I wasn't sure about you. And _I _could've gotten in a lot of trouble, too. More than you -- when you think about it." The fraternisation rules existed to protect the balance of power. When a senior officer propositioned a junior one it carried a whole lot of possible implications. _Especially_ in a case like this.

A shy smile crawled onto Trip's face. "I… I just couldn't wait anymore. I had to know. I just couldn't think of how to ask you, and I was so scared that I'd blow everything. I mean… at least as your friend I'd still be there, right? But if you weren't interested… or worse… I was scared that you'd hate me and I'd never see you again."

Jon slid around the booth until their knees touched. He kissed Trip – once, twice. "Believe me: 'hate' is not the word for what I'm feeling." He wasn't quite sure _what_ he was feeling – it just felt like he was a giddy teenager himself. "Really," he repeated, "I'm glad you did this. I don't know how much longer I could have tortured myself, either."

"I just thought… too… that maybe if you were… that didn't mean you were interested in me. I mean I'm not…"

Jon silenced him with another kiss. "I'm definitely interested, Trip. More than interested. Like I said: I thought it would be the other way around."

"What do you mean?" Genuine puzzlement shone in Trip's eyes. "That…"

"You really… Trip, you're young; you're on your way up; you're smart; you're charismatic, and you're definitely gorgeous. You could be with anyone you wanted, so why me?"

Trip was silent for a moment. "Because you don't seem to care about all that. All the times we've talked…we've actually talked. And you're all those things, too."

Jon raised an eyebrow, just barely.

"Well, older than me, obviously. But not _old_." Trip stared into the distance, as though he couldn't think of anything more to say.

_Maybe we've said all we need to at this point_. Indeed, it seemed like all Trip's energy was gone, as though he'd gotten here and now had no idea how to get any further. Jon didn't need any more words either. 

"It took five more dates before we got any further than that. I always got the feeling that it was letting me get _emotionally_ close that bothered him. Bothers him. Most of our fights come when I try to find out just who he is. He gets so scared… and he'll do anything to stop me -- to shut me up."

"Oh." Trip shook himself, realising that Jonathan was done with his story. "Um… yeah." It was disconcerting to hear about yourself asking a friend on a date. Even more disconcerting imagining some of the details. "Well, I don't like Archer prying either. He just knows not to push a topic when I change the subject. Of course, it probably helps that I'm not anything more than a friend…" It had been a straining point in some of his other relationships though. The cold sullen silences, the screaming matches… all of which usually ended up with Trip in a bar somewhere and not making it home. More than once he'd come to in a jail cell, waiting for them to send him on his way now that he could walk. Once he'd even landed in a hospital, after wandering out into traffic without looking. _And I say James self-medicates_.

"…I mean, to be honest, though… you wouldn't know half these things about me if I didn't think that I'd never see you again."

"I know." Jonathan sounded sad about Trip's confession, but resigned. "Still, I can't help but think… people might be a little less jealous if they saw you had some weak points. That you weren't perfect."

"They already know that. It's just… people make judgements, right? They assume that because you've done this, that, and everything else, then this is the person you should be. And I don't _want_ to be the crazy-scary one. I want to be the person that people can _trust. _That they can say: 'hey, that's my friend Trip' and mean it." His voice grew soft. "I don't want people to be afraid of me."

"I'm not afraid of you." Jonathan gestured at Kaci who'd stuck with them. "She doesn't seem afraid of you."

Trip had forgotten Kaci was even there; she could be so silent. "Yeah but…"

"I know what he means." It was the first sentence Kaci had actually spoken in Jonathan's presence. "People don't like anything that's too different from what they are used to. You already know what it's like to be different, so you have a better understanding. But even you don't know what it's like to be _so_ different from everybody else that they don't know how to handle you, to be _so _different that people think you're somehow dangerous or liable to explode. _I_ know that, and _he_ knows that. And _that's_ why nobody else knows."

"But…"

"You can't fix the past, sir. It just is."

_Bingo_. _That_ was it: the thing he'd missed. He grabbed Kaci, kissed her on the cheek. "You're a genius crewman. That's _it_." He slapped the button for the turbolift, fighting the urge to start dancing. All he needed was a little more proof.


	11. Horseshoe Nails

Disclaimer:  I do not own most of these characters.  This is for entertainment purposes only.

Author's Note:  A special thank-you to Drogna whose work helped return me to a darkly philosophical state of mind.  Believe me, it's a compliment.  Go read her stuff.  Please.  Also, thank you _so_ much to my beta readers – gaianarchy and silvershadowfire.  Without you, there would have been much bigger holes. 

Warning:  Science/religion discussion coming up.  Dogmatics need not apply.

**Chapter 8: Horseshoe Nails**

                        Even a god cannot change the past.

                                                            ---Agathon

                        … and all for the want of a horseshoe nail.

                                                            ---_For the Want of a Nail. _(Traditional)

                        Either he's dead… or my watch has stopped.

                                                            --- Groucho Marx

            "Care to enlighten me?"  Jonathan moved up beside him and angled himself to look directly at Trip.

            "I can't.  Not right now.  It's… it's something I'm working on.  I…I think I've got it figured out, but there's still details.  _And_ whether I'm right or wrong… we've still got to get this ship operational."

            Jonathan kept staring at him, as though he could divine the answers from Trip's face.

            _Maybe he could.  If I was his Trip._  Besides, he _was_ still working on it.  _It's just a theory at this stage_.

            **_Oh, God.  This isn't one of _those_ theories_.**

_Well, yeah._ What other kind of theory could he come up with in a screwed up situation like this?  He knew what Inner-Charles meant, however.  The type of theory that ended up with Trip taking some insane risk because he _thought_ it was right.  But there were times when you just had to ignore your cautious side and leap in with both feet.  _Times like now_.

            He could feel Kaci staring at him too, but something told him she was closer to figuring it out than Jonathan.  She had the quicker mind – she _was_ an engineer who first saw major tech at seventeen.  It was no surprise that she could figure out what he had.  _Part of it is _being_ an engineer._  Jonathan was a pilot and pilots saw things differently from engineers.  But Kaci…

            He caught her eye and she nodded.  So she _had_ figured it out.  And she knew he didn't want to tell Jonathan.

            **_Now why is that?_**

            _Maybe I just don't want to say it aloud.  If anybody's listening…_ Or maybe it was simply the fact that saying it aloud would prove how stupid it sounded.  He needed more proof… exactly how he was going to get it was another problem.  _I don't even know what I need for proof._

            The turbolift finally reached them.   _Damn it's slow_.  He couldn't help but wonder if that was simply a symptom of the bigger problems on the ship, or if it was a deliberate act on someone else's part.

            **_We're not at all paranoid, are we?_**

            "Not in the least."  Funny how sarcastic you could get, even with yourself.  He punched in the command to take them to the bridge – the next best place to engineering to do the work he had to do.  Except…

            "Fuck it."  Jonathan and Kaci watched as Trip entered a new destination, in the opposite direction.  "If they came for us in engineering, where do you think they'd expect us to go next?"

            "The bridge," Jonathan acknowledged.  "It's where anyone would go.  Where else…"

            "Oh, just a little place that came to mind one day.  We never did take all the wiring out… and with the engines down it's not like it's dangerously hot up there.  And it's hooked up to all the major…"

            "The catwalk."  Jonathan caught on and gave Trip a gentle smile.  "I must admit, it's not something that came to mind…"

            "Oh, so you guys did that too, huh?"  Trip felt slightly disappointed.  It would've been nice to be the only guy in the multi-verse who thought that hiding in a furnace would be a good idea.

            **_Absolutely no ego, either_.  **Okay, so it had been a vain hope…

            **_That's bad, Tucker.  Very bad_.  **Trip chuckled at Inner-Charles' response.

            "What?" Jonathan raised an eyebrow.  It was only fair that he couldn't understand, being outside the joke.

            "Just a habit of mine.  Bad puns."  Jonathan still looked puzzled, so Trip elaborated.  "_Ego_-trip.  _Vain_ hope."

            "Mmnhm."  Jonathan smiled again, this time with more amusement behind it.  "Ego-_Trip_, huh?"

            Trip laughed harder. "Not you, too.  It's bad enough listening to me come up with them.  I don't need help."  He nearly leaned back against the turbolift wall, and then stopped.  A shiver ran through him at the thought, at the memory of his dream.  _One came true… or at least aspects…_  Cautiously he reached towards the wall…

            _{TRIP!  OMIGOD, NO!  DON'T TOUCH THAT!}_  Toby screamed in his ear, her voice drenched in panic.  He jerked his hand back and stared at her.  Then he pulled out a scanner and ran it over the wall.

            _Holy shit_.  More than a hundred amperes of current ran through that wall…seventy _milli_amperes – less than a thousandth of that – could kill a person instantly.  _I've already died enough for one lifetime_.

            "Thanks, Tob."  He looked to the others.  "Don't anybody touch the walls, okay? Especially not that one.  You thought I looked fried before…" He'd have been burned to a crisp if he touched that thing.  _And now aren't you glad you remember your dreams_?

            "How…" Jonathan looked down at the read-out on the scanner and then up at Trip.

            "Damfino.  There's no _way_ that thing should be carrying that much current. And _don't_ ask me why it hasn't arced out and fried us anyway.  That thing is pure hot lightning."  Hot lightning – the continuing current after the first quick stroke – did all the damage, starting fires and barbecuing living creatures.  _And people think Florida is all surf and sun_.  They forgot about the hurricanes and the thunderstorms that moved in to remind residents that Paradise still belonged to God.  Hell, his first science project had been on lightning, and he still loved to stand and watch the sky let loose an unmatchable light show.  _I just don't like it being this close._

            He turned around slowly to check the rest of the walls.  "Oh, fuck."

            Jonathan closed his eyes. "Don't tell me."

            "All of them.  The ceiling too.  We're just damn lucky it's not the floor."  Trip decided to ignore Jonathan's order.  _It's not like he's _my_ captain.  Besides… it was rhetorical_.

            **_I take it back: you're not paranoid_.**

            "Hmn?"

            **_Look, moron.  If the walls and the ceiling are hot but the floor isn't… how can that be accidental?  On the other hand, it does keep you nicely trapped in here, meaning that you can't do any more damage.  And in answer to your other question… whoever did this probably grounded everything out … just like an old fashioned electric fence.  It won't arc out… but it will keep you neatly contained for however long they want to keep you here.  So unless you've got any bright ideas…_**

"I suppose we could look on the bright side and assume that if this is intentional, then whoever is doing it isn't trying to kill us."  Jonathan moved into the centre of the turbolift and Trip could see the sweat beading on the other man's brow.

            "Yeah, I guess you could take that as a comfort."  Trip hitched up his jeans slightly and settled down cross-legged on the floor.  The last thing he needed to do right now was fall over, and it was less likely to happen if he didn't remain standing.

            Kaci flicked her gaze past his shoulder to where Toby still stood, then over at the wall.  Then she joined Trip on the floor and tugged on Jonathan's pant leg.

            "I don't…"

            "It's better than standing there so stiff that a breeze could topple you."  Trip smirked.  "Low centre of gravity.  Much more stable.  You tall people never seem to understand that."

            "I thought you said you tripped and fell over the Crewman, here."  Slowly, Jonathan lowered himself until he was seated beside them.  "I've always been afraid of stuff like that.  I saw someone get electrocuted once… worse than you did… it wasn't pretty."

            "No," Trip agreed, "It's not.  But just because I have inner-ear and coordination problems does not mean that the laws of physics have taken a holiday." He watched, fascinated, as Toby walked over to the turbolift doors and reached towards them.  _She was funky on those phase-pistol batteries.  I wonder what this is going to do._  It probably wouldn't harm her… she lived off energy, didn't she?  It certainly seemed to make her stronger.  _Just don't let her go bashing things again._  That was one thing… how was he going to explain the damage to the sickbay doors to Phlox?  Or to anyone else for that matter?

            **_And here come the gentlemen with the nice white coats and the jacket with the extra-long arms, just for you.  Can't you just hear Archer now:  'Right, Trip, a ghost did it.  A ghost who just happens to be your old childhood friend, and whose death you still feel somewhat responsible for.  Tell me, how long have you been seeing and hearing people who aren't there?'_**

"Kaci can see her."  He spoke inaudibly, the words barely leaving his throat.

            **_Ah, but do you know _she's_ real?_  **He could hear the hint of amusement in his inner-voice, mocking him and his dark obsession.

            _That's the problem with knowing too much about mental illness.  You start to see it in every shadow._  Still, he had to operate on the premise that he wasn't truly insane, at least until someone showed him enough evidence to the contrary.  Or he did something so _incredibly_ nuts that even he couldn't pass it off as 'it sounded like a good idea at the time.'  _And if I'm that far gone… I probably won't recognise it, or care anyway_.  The fact that he did care – he clung to it like a lifeline.  _At least it gives me a moral compass to work with…_ last week's movie floated back to him …_even if it doesn't point north_.

            Electric blue – what else could it be – light danced around Toby's fingertips, sparking at first, then becoming the swirling mix of purple, red and green that defined her.  Then something popped and Trip smelled smoke, half blinded by the sudden flash.

            _{Well, that's one down.}_  She pulled back and moved over to the next wall.  _{You know, I could end up blowing this whole damn thing up.  I mean it's not like I'm an expert on this sort of thing… and there is that nasty little first law of thermodynamics to consider… the one that says you can't destroy energy?  We may have somewhat disproved Einstein, but last I checked, Meyer was still valid.}_

            "Ah, but Toby, that assumes a closed system."  There was nothing else he could do, so he might as well needle his best friend.  "I think we've had enough evidence today to prove that the system isn't closed."   He glanced over at Jonathan.  "In fact, I think we've cracked it wide open."

            _{Oh, so now you're the expert on Universal Theory, huh?  You want to come over here and stick _your_ hand on this wall and see what happens?}_

"I thought you weren't ready for me to die, just yet.  And I think I've grown past the point of you talking me into crazy adventures."  No, he hadn't, but he wasn't going to give her any encouragement.  _I'm not ready to bet my neck on these shoelaces_.

            He glanced at Jonathan again and instantly regretted his banter.  The other man sat with his eyes closed, still incredibly tense.

            "Hey.  It's all right.  I've got a good feeling about this."  Trip reached over and picked up Jonathan's wrist.  The man's pulse raced and Trip could see that his breathing was shallow and quick.  _Uh, oh_.

            "Um..."  He tried to think of something to say or do.  _I don't need him having a panic attack_.  "I… um…" He took Jonathan's hand between both of his own, a little shocked at how cold it was.  He began rubbing it rapidly, to bring circulation back into the fingers.  "Hey.  We're going to be fine.  It's cool.  She knows what she's doing.  And… and I don't think I've had my life spared this much today just to die sitting in a turbolift.  Hey, if I can climb three decks straight up a ladder… you can make it through this."  He felt the hair on the back of his neck begin to stand up as Toby went to work on the second wall.  It felt strange… him being the one to calm down Archer.  _Now _I'm_ doing it._  No, this was _Jonathan_, not Archer.  _Keep it straight_.  Treacherously, his mind latched onto the pun in that statement, nearly setting off a case of the giggles.  The joke was beneath him, which only told him how stressed out he really was..

            He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  Toby had tried to hypnotize him once… she'd claimed it worked, and he said it hadn't.  Still, the relaxation techniques _did_ work, when he thought to use them.  _Focus on the breathing.  Keep it controlled_.  How often had he heard _that_ advice?  Whether from his football coach or his diving instructor; even Nathan had given him the same counsel.  _Focus and breathe_.  Hell, Hess told him all the time that breathing was the most important part of anything.

            "Breathe," he murmured, realising that Jonathan could use the same advice.  "Just breathe.  Nice and calm and slow.  It's okay.  It's all going to be okay."

            **_Who are you trying to convince?_**

            "Hush."  Hopefully Jonathan wouldn't take that as criticism directed at him.  "We're going to be just fine.  Just breathe, okay?  That's it."

            "Odd."  Jonathan's voice was strained, but Trip could still hear the humour behind it.

            "What?"  Warmth was slowly seeping back into Jonathan's fingers.  _Good_.  The man was calming down, then.

            "You comforting me.  Doesn't it work the other way around?"

            Now Trip did laugh.  "I was just thinking the same thing.  Who'da thunk?  Trip Tucker -- stress management expert.  Though, given the amount I cause, I should know a little bit about it.  Either that, or be on the payroll of a headache remedy company."

            "Let me guess… were it not for your brilliance in Engineering, you would've been kicked out of Starfleet a long time ago."  Now dryness crept into the tone, another good sign.

            "Several times over.  _Besides_ stealing the NX prototype, there were a few other… incidents that could be conceived as severe violations of protocol, and/or the rules.  However, I will not elaborate further without the presence of my lawyer."  Given that she'd caused a few of them… it probably wasn't fair to elaborate without her anyway.  "Let's just say Captain Jeffries used to wince at the sight of me."  Part of that came from telling Jeffries what to do… something senior officers never appreciated.  Even Archer didn't like it – even if he _did_ tend to bow to Trip's expertise.

            "That bad, huh?"  Jonathan's breathing came much steadier now, as Toby moved over to the third wall.

            "I keep an erratic work schedule.  It bothered him."  It wasn't so much his assigned shifts that were the problem – he showed up for all of those.  It was the off hours work that drove Jeffries crazy – the times he'd show up at midnight and let himself in to tweak a couple of components or re-write a single line of code.  Or he'd stay well into the next shift, obsessing over a single mechanism and defying anyone to touch it.  In Jeffries' opinion, it was a sign of lack of discipline.  However, even he knew it would be hard to prosecute someone for working extra-hard.  "He didn't care much for my choice of friends, either."

            "Oh?"  Jonathan opened his eyes now, and gave Trip an odd look.  "Such as?"

            "Well, Hess, for one.  Even Archer doesn't understand the two of us."  It helped that Hess was a fellow Southerner  -- from Georgia, sure, but Southern nonetheless – and was virtually impossible to offend.  "She didn't exactly impress him… which is why he put her with me to start with.  Then there's the fact that I hung out more with the beach crowd… most of whom are non-conformists – except for when it comes to each other.  Throw in the fact that I lived with a bunch of artists and hackers – some of whom were serious anarchists – and you can pretty much guarantee that Jeffries and I were not going to see eye to eye.  Unfortunately for him, he could never fault my work…"

            "But he liked the quiet, by-the-book discipline that you've never mastered."

            "Yeah.  Me _or _her.  Then again… when you're facing the unknown, you can't rely on a book."  Robinson had said the same thing to Archer, once.  Back when Archer had been closer in temperament to Jeffries than he'd ever want to admit.   "I don't know how many things I've had to make up because I nobody else had ever done them before."  What book – for example – covered situations like this?

            **_What to do when you're sitting on a seriously crippled ship, stranded between dimensions, with an alternate-version of your captain, a seriously silent crewman and your very weird dead-best-friend.  Yeah, I _know_ they thought of that one in the tactical sessions_.**

            "It must have been hard on you, too.  Knowing that you could wind up cashiered at any given moment."

            Trip shrugged.  "That's the risk I take, being me.  I try to compromise where I can… but a lot of that, I just don't care about.  I figure there's more important things to worry about than whether someone's hair is purple or green.  If they can accomplish what I need them to… I can put up with a lot.  I guess I expect the same level of respect from other people, and if they can't give it, I don't figure it's my problem.  I've always been able to walk away."  From _anything_, whether it be jobs, or relationships, or even old friends.  When the situation became untenable…  "I've always been able to do it."

            Jonathan shook his head.  "Just walk away.  So if Archer or Forrest, or somebody came to you tomorrow and said: 'Shape up, or ship out…'"

            "Well, then find me a ride home.  I'm not saying it doesn't hurt… but wounds heal.  Maybe not completely, but they heal.  If it's a choice between making someone happy, or being me…" He had been given that ultimatum once; by an Arts major he'd dated for about four months.  He'd insulted her friends – annoyed at how they thought they knew everything, when they didn't even know what they were talking about – and she'd told him either to apologise to them, or leave.  She'd found everything she'd ever left at his place – a prelude to moving in – boxed up and left on her doorstep the next day.  Not only that, but he had a new apartment and a new contact number within a week.  He'd left home for two months when he was fifteen, too, simply because his father made the same threat:  _My house, my rules.  If you don't like it here, leave._  It was the one point he never bluffed on.

            "I thought you said you'd give in to Captain Archer on anything."  Apparently Jonathan had Archer's memory for conversation.

            "Anything but that.  If it comes down to sticking around and sacrificing 'Me' or walking… it's one foot in front of the other, baby and don't look back." He'd come close, but fortunately the words had never been spoken.  _If he'd said it…_

            "And in return…"

            "And in return, I don't give a crap about a lot of the things other people do, provided they do their job, or don't get in the way of me and mine.  I mean, _some_ things bother me – if they're serious enough – but most of it I could care less about."

            Jonathan looked like he was about to say something, but Toby beat him to it.

            "All done.  Except for the ceiling, of course, but I don't think you want to use that, anyway."  As Jonathan paled, Trip realised that Toby was audible to him again.  _The dangers of handing power to a teenager_.  Still, she was the one who made this jailbreak possible.

            "Hard adjustment, huh?"  While Trip could sympathise, he also itched to get back to work.  _All it takes is a re-alignment of your beliefs_.  To a guy raised on science – like Trip himself had been – the sudden intrusion of spiritualism came, usually, as a severe shock.  _Ghosts are unproven, so…_it was often hard to discover that the superstitious folks were right.

            _But so hard to deny the evidence_.  Toby left behind tangible proof of her presence all the time.  Cold spots in a climate controlled, sealed, environment.  Mysteriously fused components, or – in rare cases like what happened earlier – damage that could have been done by no living human source.  To deny it would be to deny his own scientific nature.  An old conversation came floating back -- the type that could only be had on a hot summer night between two close friends who knew better than to take offence.

[           "How can you look up at that, and not believe?" Toby stretched out on the two-by-eights they'd nailed in to form the floor of their treehouse and pointed up at the canopy of stars that formed – for now – the roof.

            Trip sat down on the ground, grateful that she hadn't insisted on him accompanying her up there.  "Believe _what_?  I believe that there's a lot to explore out there… but what are you expecting me to believe _in_?"

            "The Universe.  God.  Everything.  How can you look at that and still not believe?"  Her arm dropped, but her eyes stayed fixed on whatever wonder she could see out there.

            "Toby.  You don't need God to be able to explain that.  It's all atoms and quarks and energy.  The stars aren't windows to Heaven, they're giant fusion reactors.  There's no magic to it… it's just science."

            "So… what you need is proof."

            He sighed, not out of frustration, or even weariness, but out of the sheer pleasure of being able to be here and have a conversation like this.  Nobody but Toby realised the enjoyment he got out of discussing matters in the philosophical realm as opposed to the hard stats of science and sport.  _They think I'm a mechanic, or a jock.  They don't expect anything else from me_.  Toby did, though, and she challenged him constantly.  "Proof would be nice, yes."

            "Do you believe in the existence of quarks, atoms and DNA?" Where was this going?  She damn well knew he did.

            "Of course.  They've all been proven…"

            "Have you ever seen one?  With your own eyes, and without the help of a computer?  You know enough about programming to know that a computer can show any image it's told to.  How then, is it any more valid than the evidence of spirit collected over the years?  Ever since photography was invented, people have been taking pictures of ghosts.  Sure, some of them were fakes, and some were just quirks of the film, but some – even with all our technological advances – still haven't been shown to be anything other than what they appear to be.  But you'll ignore those, and believe in the crafted images of a DNA double-helix or a steel molecule."

"I…" He'd never thought of it that way.  All the textbooks and teachers said these things were real… and he'd always believed that.  _But for centuries people did the same thing and called it God_.  They'd fought wars in its name… schismed and debated and tried to tell people the 'right' way to live They'd had textbooks to explain it:  the Bible, the Torah, the Koran… the list was endless.  _Just like the number of science texts out there_.  Everybody had a slightly different theory… but how was that different from the scientists?  And science -- as much as any religious sect – fought viciously against the iconoclasts, the ones with the new ideas.  Science, he suddenly realised, was it's own religion – albeit a religion of numbers and replicatable experiments.  They still had a god, but called him Evidence, Proof and Reliable Results.  A trinity of Data cloaked in the mantle of Progress and Enlightenment.  The scientists were the new priests, the guardians of knowledge.  They alone decided what the populace would hear, and what was too dangerous for them to know.

            "So you're saying…"

            "I'm saying that just because you can't see it, doesn't mean it isn't _real_.  And no matter how good our science and technology have gotten, they still haven't managed to disprove the spirit."  He heard her shift above him, but the boards sounded solid.  _Good_.  He'd designed it well, then.

            "You can't prove a negative, Toby." It was a point that got him in trouble with some people.  "Lack of evidence is not evidence of lack?"  It should have been her line in this conversation, not his.

            "Okay, then.  _Why_ does it work?"

            He sighed again, and started to lay out a basic framework.  Gravity, space and planetary orbits…

            "No," she interrupted him impatiently.  "I don't want to know _how_ it works, Trip, I want to know _why_."

            "Excuse me?"  He blinked, trying to sort out where he'd gone wrong.

            "See, that's where science gets you.  Science tells you the hows – how disease is spread, how the warp engine works, how flamingos can stand on one leg… but it doesn't tell you _anything_ about the whys."

            "And you're trying to say that the _why_ is God."  It always seemed like such a cop-out to him.  'We can't explain it, so it must be due to a higher power.'  "Does there have to be a why?" It was their favourite game:  Devil's Advocates.  He liked it because it forced him to think on lines away from the usual – and sometimes to question his own beliefs.  If he'd never met her, such questioning would have been profoundly uncomfortable. It still _was_ uncomfortable… but sometimes it was necessary.  Being able to do it back to her made the discomfort worthwhile.

            "Not if you're a post-modernist," she admitted.  "But then you're just sort of giving up on everything, aren't you?"

            "I thought that was the existentialists."

            "Only because Sartre was such a gloomy son-of a bitch.  Existentialism is a lot more complicated than that.  Okay, so the phenomenologists claim not to care about why either… but they don't deny that unreplicatable things exist."  She didn't elaborate further, but when he looked into it he discovered he practically _was_ an existentialist.  The acceptance of responsibility, the idea that choice _was_ always available, even the fact that choice created stress… he knew all of those things to be true, even if there wasn't any proof.  He had trouble with phenomenology… _but nobody's perfect_.

            "Okay, so, assuming there _is_ a God, what do you think the 'why' is?"  He knew she didn't have an answer… who could?

            "Do you really think our puny, self-centred minds could handle it?  We – as a species – spent centuries thinking we were the centre of the universe.  Before the Vulcans landed – hell, _after_ the Vulcans landed – there were people who still didn't believe there was life beyond Earth.  Oddly enough… a great many of them were science-types.  They couldn't fathom that a warp reactor could work – breaks the laws of physics, dontcha know – and they couldn't keep up."

            "And you're saying a religious person could."  How ridiculous was that?  Trip shook his head, even though she couldn't see him. Religion was famed for its inability to keep up:  look what happened when Darwin hit. 

            "No… because religion, whether it's 'God-based' or 'Data-based' is about rules and control.  It doesn't leave room for faith.  _Those_ are the people who can keep up… the ones who don't need proof, and can accept that there are things that can never be known."

            "Faith in what?  You're still coming back around to _something_ religious… or are you saying there should _be_ no rules?"  Mankind _needed_ rules, even if only to have something to fight against.  _How would I know who I was, if I wasn't fighting something?_

            "Guidelines, yes.  But when you think about it… the greatest rule ever handed down – admittedly used now in a religious context – was antithetical to rules:  'Judge not, lest ye be judged?'  It _totally_ disallows any infringement on other peoples' behaviour."

            " 'Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.'" Trip threw a quote back at her.  "I'd hardly class you as the 'non-judgemental' type.  And are you saying that we shouldn't prosecute… say… a mass murderer, because we don't have the right?"

            " 'Even the Devil can quote scripture to serve his own purposes.'" From her reply, he knew he'd scored a hit.  "The main thing the rule was aimed at was all our petty little judgements we make as human beings.  'Oh, Tommy didn't go to church, or Betsy cut class today and was seen smoking.  They must be bad people.'  _Nobody's_ purely good, or purely evil.  _Shades of Grey_."  The intonation on the last phrase told him it was a song title – Toby's short-hand communication.

            "Then… how can you say my lack of 'faith' is wrong?"  He made sure the quotations sounded around the word.  "If you're so non-judgmental, and all."

            "I just think you're closing yourself off to so many possibilities, Trip.  Look.  You love Bernini, right?  Yet most of his works were profoundly spiritual:  angels, saints – even his 'pagan' works had an element of the spiritual about them.  Yet you sit there and tell me that there's no evidence of a soul."

            "Life after Death.  Do you really believe that, Toby?  That there's something beyond _this_?  That there's greater consequences?"

            "You know I do, Trip.  I told you the day we met that I believed in reincarnation… which incidentally fits neatly in with the first law of Thermodynamics… what I don't believe in is death itself.  'I am merely a spirit, trapped in matter,'" She quoted, but he had no idea from where.  "_This_, as you so neatly referred to it, is the greatest impediment we have."

            "Yeah, well, I'll tell you what.  Whoever dies first can prove to the other that they're wrong.  You go, and you can haunt me for the rest of my life, just to say I told you so.  I go, and my non-existent spirit will leave you alone."  He could never imagine her dying – Toby was a force of nature.  She'd defy Death himself, just because he was trying to make her do something.  Nope… Toby was never going to die.  No way.]

            "Were you planning to go, or just sit there, thinking?"  Jonathan's voice returned Trip to the present.  Stepping back from the hole he and Kaci had created in the floor, Trip gestured for Jonathan to go first.

            "No longer taking the lead?" Even though Jonathan's tone was teasing, Trip could tell the other man was eager to escape their prison.

            "You can catch me when I slip."  Trip kept his tone as dry as possible, though there was truth in the sentiment.  Given the choice, he'd much rather have someone else go first.  _Otherwise I'd have to choose between going down there, or sitting here_.  Now _that_ would be a choice to cause stress in a highly responsible, and terminally restless acrophobic.

            Some things about the existentialist philosophy still bothered him, especially after years of Life to think about it in.  Like how could illness – any illness –be a choice?  When did anybody come up to you and say:  'Hi, how would you like your brain to operate from an alternate reality from now on?'  No, stuff like that just happened, it was pre-programmed into your genes.  Not a _certainty_ of insanity – not even the almighty DNA could ensure that – but a _pre-disposition_ that any number of environmental factors could set off.  And without knowing what those factors were… it was a problem with the theory that he and Toby both shared:  How can you say it's purely free will when you don't have all the information to base your choice on?  If you _knew_ the brakes on the bus would cut out… wouldn't it change your decision to step out into the street?

            "Commander," Jonathan's voice echoed up from below.  "You might want to consider coming with us."

            "Sorry, just stressing over a decision." He caught Toby's sudden chuckle and knew she'd figured out what he'd been thinking about.  "I'm just hoping that we won't get hit by a bus."

            "Don't say that, you'll tempt the Universe."  The sound of Jonathan repeating one of Trip's favourite phrases caused its own set of laughs.

            "Yes, _sir._  Stopping temptation now, _sir_."  Unlike his earlier emphasis on the honorific, this one carried humour.  Humour that made it so much easier for him to stick a foot through the hole and onto the ladder.  After that, it was just a matter of one foot after the other.

            Up in the nacelle, he booted up a console again.  The same scramble appeared in the same bright pink.  He found himself growing used to it and entertained a mild thought about switching things over permanently.  _Nah.  Hess would love it, but I think Malcolm would kill me if he had to work in an armoury bathed in pink_.  Still… that _would_ be something to save up for some boring day when the armoury officer was getting on his nerves again.

            _Hmn.  How to get in?_  Obviously with something that would convince these little monsters that he was indeed Charles ''Levin' Tucker III and not some talented impostor.  He doubted 'knock-knock' would work again… not with Gina's paranoid nature when it came to her programs.  _She could give Malcolm lessons_.  That was the one thing that gave him what patience he did have when dealing with Malcolm on another one of his _be careful_ trips:  the knowledge that it could always be worse.  _At least he doesn't pull me out of bed at four in the morning to discuss an idea._  Part of the program in front of him was his own work… freely given in exchange for Gina's tolerance of him and his.  _After James, I owed her_.  But only Gina knew the whole of the work.  Ironically though, given the nature of his employment, she trusted him with more than most.  'Knowing the line between loyalty and foolishness' she called it, once.  Another was 'Understanding that there are more angles, more dimensions than the obvious.'

            _And sometimes it is obvious_.  The best way to prove he was – well, him – would be to do something so undeniably Trip/'Levin Tuckerish that it could only be him doing it.

            Look, you little sons-of-bitches, he typed, I want into my goddamned computer, so get out of my goddamned way you fuzzy bastards_._  He could practically sense Jonathan's eyes widening behind him.

            " 'Levin, is it really you?"  This time the voice from the speakers sounded surprised and eager.

            Of course it's me you stupid moron, who were you expecting?  Fucking Santa Claus? Give me a fucking break.

            There was a pause, and he wondered if he misjudged.  Then the voice returned, this time with a hint of humour behind it.

            "Is that enough time, 'Levin?  We know you can be quick."

            He nearly doubled over with laughter.  Trust Gina to get them to take that literally.  Still, he felt the need to respond.

            Not that quick.  I PREFER to take my time at it, you know_._  Okay, so he was debating with digital bunnies, but these were the types of conversations he and Gina had all the time:  filled with insults and double-entendres, none of which were meant to be taken seriously. 

            **_You know, we're looking at a pattern here_.**

_Maybe_, he told himself_, but I hardly think this is the time to be discussing my relationships with women_.  Mostly because the pattern was depressing.  _Damn depressing_.

            Instantly the air was filled with a million giggles.  "Good for you, 'Levin, now what were you wanting?"

            Status.

            "All killed, 'Levin.  Bad, bads all dead.  'Portant stuff chewed."

            Thank you.

            "Welcome, 'Levin.  More?"

            Control.

            Suddenly the lights flickered and dimmed.  " 'Levin…" Warning was clear in the tone.  " 'Levin no want us to go away now.  _We_ no want to go away now.  _We_ like here.  'Levin not do that to us."

            NOW!  He added the exclamation mark to emphasise his intent.  That had been one of his ideas… to make the program understand the meaning behind punctuation and case, not just recognise a difference.  He hadn't expected Gina to take him seriously… he hadn't even expected her to finish this.  He recognised something else, too.  These critters' personalities had been based on _his_, in his childish modes.  The mode he so often inhabited during those four a.m. sessions when all he wanted to do was sleep.  _Cranky_.

            A figure resolved on the screen, its rabbity face twisted into a pout.  "No.  Don't want to.  Make us."

            Bunnies…  He hoped they'd pick up on the warning inherent in that statement.

            "What's our real name, then, 'Levin?  What's our real, secret name?  Not going away without."

            God, what would you name a bunch of psycho bunnies?  _Well, what do bunnies do?_  Breathe… eat… and… "Replicate."

            "Excuse me?"  Jonathan looked at him expectantly.  "You want them to…"

            "No, no.  They _do_ replicate.  They're _rabbits_, and more than that they're a self-replicating anti-viral program with encryption capabilities.  Part of the reason for the encryption is almost a vaccine procedure.  It's hard for a targeted virus to take out certain files if those files no longer appear to exist.  But how do rabbits replicate?"

            "You need to ask me that?"  Jonathan's smile showed more than a hint of mischief.  "_You_…"

            "I don't mean _sex_."  Trip reached up and smacked him in the back of the head.  "I mean _mathematically_ – how do bunnies reproduce?"

            Jonathan shook his head.  "You've lost me."

            "Fibonacci."  Kaci answered for him, and Trip wondered why Toby hadn't beat her to it.  Then he remembered: _Hell, she probably can't get up here_.  The shielding kept out a lot of different energies… including ones like hers.

            "Fibonacci?"  Jonathan's eyebrows practically buried themselves in his hairline.  "Who the hell is Fibo…"

            "Are you _sure_ your father was an engineer?  How could you have spent that much time around math and _not_ have heard of Fibonacci?  The entire reason he _invented_ the sequence was to calculate replication rates.  1,1,2,3,5,8,13…  It was one of Gina's inspirations for the bunnies in the first place."  Turning, he typed it into the computer.

            "Awwww.  You guessed.  No fun.  Are you sure, 'Levin?  Y/N."  He could swear he almost heard a sniffle in the voice.  An almost pitiful pleading.

            He moved his hand so Jonathan couldn't see what he was doing.  The last thing he wanted was to spend a lot of time trying to defend what had to seem like a completely insane action.  His finger plunged down to the keyboard, connecting not with the 'n', but the letter beside it.  M.  Maybe.  In other words, maybe if they were good, they could stick around.  What it really meant was that the program would run in the background and hunt and destroy any further intrusions.  _Because, clearly, the stuff we already have on here isn't doing a hell of a lot of good_.  Not only that, but there was a hell of a lot more to the program, capabilities that could prove useful down the line.  _I just won't tell Archer_.  Or Malcolm, for that matter:  no sense telling a paranoid that you'd just installed some heavy-duty spyware on their system.  Given that the only person it would report to would be him… _It's not like I'm handing information to the enemy_.

            The lights brightened and the screen resolved in front of him, back to its normal blue on blue. "We're in."  He looked at a readout on the screen.  "Or rather, we will be in just over an hour."  He settled back in his chair and prepared for a wait, picking up a pad and stylus to keep busy with.  A moment later he found himself scribbling a list:

1) What kind of proof do I need?

2) How do I go about obtaining it?

3) How can I be sure the evidence is accurate?

4) What the hell am I trying to prove anyway?

5) Will it work?

            _Hmn.  Better to ignore number 5 for now, or you'll never get to any of the others.  It's not something you control, anyway_.

            He tapped the stylus against his teeth, thinking.  Number five had to stay on the list, because he knew it was the lynchpin.  _I have to _make_ them believe me, which means it has to be overwhelming proof, or something else entirely.  They need to accept my authority on the subject – which won't be easy because they're all the acknowledged experts._  His mind flashed again to the conversation Toby and he had had on faith.  _They're all scientists, more than anything.  They _believe_ science.  Well, Sisko might be something else… but I'm sure he'll go for science too.  Or…_

_            **That could work.  **_**If_ you pull it off_.**

            "I wish Charles was more like you."  Jonathan interrupted him again.

            "Huh?"  The sudden change in topic confused him.  _Not that it's hard_.  "I thought he was the man of your dreams."

            Jonathan sighed.  Trip could see this was hard for him, confessing a deeply hidden truth.  So deeply hidden that he'd been hiding it from himself.

            "He was.  Now… I love him, but I'm not too sure how he feels about me.  I've known for years that he's bi, but now… it seems like half the time he's with someone else.  Then he'll be back for a bit… then he's gone again.  And it's not just the women."

            "Hence your concern that Toby was Crewman Lindekker."  Trip understood now, and realised how painful his ramblings must have been.  _To hear the person you love murmuring somebody else's name…_ yeah, that hurt all right.

            Jonathan nodded.  "_And_ he's been drinking and gambling a lot more than usual.  We actually had an alien ship track Enterprise down and take some of her gear to cover debts he left behind on some planet.  When I told him it had to stop…"

            "He lost it," Trip finished.  "Was that the first time…"

            "He's been violent?  Yes.  But it gets worse, doesn't it?  I'm so scared he's getting out of control, and I can't help him.  Then running into you… and you were so concerned – even though you snapped at me once or twice – I thought maybe I'd gotten a miracle.  That maybe…"

            Trip sighed.  _Poor guy_.  "Still, you don't want him being like me.  I mean aside from the part that I am not in the least bit attracted to you," as planned, that brought the hint of a smile to Jonathan's lips, "There's also a few other factors.  Number one is I am a complete bastard…"

            **_No argument here_.**

"… I don't conform to the rules…"

            **_Yup_.**

"…I, too, am quite possibly a borderline alcoholic.  I don't drink all the time, but I do drink at the _worst_ of possible times – like when I'm stressed – and when I do drink it tends to be to excess if available…"

            **_Tell me about it._**

            "…I tend to engage in irrational behaviour…"

            **_Yeah, I can agree with that_.**

"… there's the possibility – given my family history – that I could go completely around the bend…"

            **_Oh, don't go buying trouble with that_**.

            "…and I have this insane desire to go base jumping."

            **_WHAT?!!_**

            "Just checking."  Inner-Charles had been getting a little too supportive.  _Just need to know I haven't lost it yet._

            "Excuse me?" Jonathan wrinkled his nose at the last one.  "Checking what?"

            "Oh, nothing.  Just me."  Trip shrugged.  "See?  You'd have to put up with all these weird conversational left turns.  Not to mention the fact that I'm territorial.  I mean there were spaces that even my closest girlfriends – few as they've been – didn't intrude on."  He turned around to look at Jonathan and saw how tired the older man was.  "We've got more than forty-five minutes left, why don't you go take a nap?  I'll wake you if I need you."

            Jonathan smiled as his own lecture turned around on him.  "Okay.  I'll do that.  Night, Trip."  He _must_ have been tired, because he leaned in and dropped a gentle kiss on Trip's cheek.  Trip waited until Jonathan moved farther along the catwalk and had settled down to sleep before pulling out a cloth and scrubbing at his face.

            _Not nice_.  Even as he did it, he chided himself.  Jonathan was exhausted and not thinking clearly.  He looked down at the cloth in his hand, an idea forming.  _But useful.  Very useful_.  _If_ what the scientists said was true, really was.  _I guess I'll just have to have a little faith_.

            Turning, he pulled up some files on the console, some of which had actually been restored.  He glanced over at Jonathan to make sure he was still sleeping, then began to read.

            A buzzer sounded a message, pulling him out of the file, then a message flashed on screen:  _All Done_.  He smiled and typed in a response.  _Thanks Guys_.  If Gina had made this program even half as sophisticated as he imagined, then not only could thanks not hurt, but there was a good chance that not doing so would breed resentment.  _And the last thing I want right now is for you guys to breed_.

            "Hey."  Quietly he made his way down the catwalk and gave Jonathan a gentle shake.  "Time to go."

            Jonathan muttered something, but didn't otherwise move. 

_            What do you think your name is?  Elizabeth?_

            "Let's go, sunshine."  Trip shook a little more firmly.  "Time to get up and go.  We've got a universe to save."  Again he felt the weird sense of a role reversal.

            Jonathan opened one eye and stared at him.  "I don't think we're qualified to do that."

            Trip shrugged.  "Welcome to Engineering.  We do stuff we're not qualified for every day.  Hell, that's half the fun of it.  You know:  what happens if we press _this_ button?"

            "I swear, if there was a big red button labelled _Universal Reset:  Causes Big Bang_, it's going to be one of you guys who hits it."  Slowly Jonathan pushed himself into a sitting position, his muscles obviously stiff from his too-brief rest.

            "I don't know.  If it promises to blow something up, it might be an armoury officer."  Trip reached down and grabbed Jonathan by the shoulders, pulling him to his feet.  "We haven't got time to be sleeping on the job.  Come on."

            "You know there's something wrong with this – me taking orders from you."

            Trip shrugged again.  "Think of it as a strongly worded suggestion.  Now that the computers are back on line – and virus free – what happens if someone starts the Warp Engine?  I can pretty much guarantee that you don't want to stay here sleeping.  Not only that, but _I_ don't want you up here if that happens.

            Jonathan looked surprised, but touched.  "That's… that's very nice to hear."

            "Yeah, 'cause at that heat you'll more than cremate and the residue will get into everything.  And I'm gonna have enough work without having to clean that up."  Now that he could do something, he didn't want to hang around doing nothing.  _You don't want to spend time with me when I'm cranky_.  He'd told Malcolm pretty much the same thing once… and the son-of-a-bitch _still_ didn't believe him.  That last hit of caffeine down in Engineering was beginning to wear off, and Toby was right:  he _did_ get nasty while in withdrawal, and it tended to hit fast.  Kaci had already collected all their gear and had the hatch partway open.  _At least _she_ gets it._

            "You're so kind."  The sarcasm in Jonathan's voice matched Trip's.  "Remind me to get you something expensive for your birthday."

            "Power tools are always good." Trip shot back.  "That way I can build something that'll get your ass in gear."

            "You know that's pretty damn close to insubordination."  Jonathan lowered himself through the hatch.

            "Damn.  I'll have to try harder then.  By the way, I'm not _your_ chief engineer."  He hoped that wasn't _quite_ as bad as it sounded.

            Jonathan seemed willing to take it all as a joke.  "Believe me, he's way more charming in the morning.  Do you take medication for that, or is it just natural?"

            Trip responded by giving him the finger, and Jonathan laughed.  "I thought you said you weren't attracted to me."  He disappeared down the ladder before Trip had a chance to hit him.

            _Smartass_.  He missed that, himself, the insulting banter he and Archer had engaged in back at the academy, before Archer became his direct superior.  Now, he found himself watching what he said, even if it was just the two of them over dinner.  He felt a new respect for the fraternisation rules creeping over him:  they were a pain in the ass at most times… but they did help shield against damage caused by a superior's hurt feelings if things weren't perfect.

            He remembered the last truly uninhibited conversation he and Archer had.  It was the day before the final senior officer assignments were made to Enterprise, the last time he felt he was dealing with nothing more than a friend.

[           "You look like hell."  Archer dropped down into the chair opposite him, and shoved a cup of coffee across the small cafeteria table.  "What happened?"

            Trip grunted.  'Hell' was hardly an accurate description.  _It doesn't matter anyway, my career is scuttled._  "I had an eventful night."

            "I'll say."  Archer's eye took in the uncommon pallor of Trip's complexion mixed in with various small cuts and bruises.    A severely blackened eye competed for attention with skinned and weeping knuckles.  Add in a killer hangover… _and I am definitely not the image of an officer_.

            "What was it, a jealous husband?"  Teasing dominated the tone, but concern lay underneath.

            _Just goes to show how well you know me_.  Trip raised his eyes enough to glare at Archer and gave him the finger.  "No."  None of the injuries were personal – he'd just been in the right place to get them.  Yesterday he'd blown up at Jeffries over a possible design flaw in Enterprise's hull that had ended in Jeffries promising an official reprimand.  _Which means no starship posting._  He didn't kid himself, he wasn't Jonathan Archer, son of Henry Archer, who'd designed the engine in the first place.  He was just some cracker from Florida with too hot a temper and too foul a mouth.  Frustrated, he'd gone for a drink.  Not at the 602… he never wanted to see the inside of that place again, never wanted to see anything to remind him of Starfleet again.  _I'm just here to hand in my official resignation_.  Instead he'd gone somewhere else… and then when they wouldn't serve him any more, somewhere else again.  Eventually he landed in one of the few places left that would serve you until you couldn't stand up… and then would pour it down your throat for you if you requested.

            Someone had started a fight… hell, at that point it could have been him… and in keeping with the tone of the place, everyone else had eagerly jumped in.  It wasn't a square dance like Archer and Robinson had had either… this was full out barroom brawl, complete with weapons.  Perhaps fortunately – then again, maybe not – this wasn't a rare affair.  When the police arrived, they didn't bother arresting everybody like they would have at a higher quality establishment; they just identified the most common offenders, sent the seriously wounded to the hospital and sent everyone else off with a warning._ No record, no crime_.  Just another sin to add to his list of transgressions.

            "Well then, how the hell?  You look like you were in a car accident."

            "I would've been, if I could drive."  He only meant it as a testament to how drunk he'd been, but Archer saw another meaning.

            "That's never stopped you before."  It seemed Archer would never tire of mocking Trip's piloting skills.  "How many scrapes and dints have you racked up on vehicles around here?  You better not do the same thing to my ship."

            "Oh yeah?  And what makes you think you're going to get it?  Or that I'll be coming with you?"

            Archer shrugged.  "I've got as good a chance as any.  And what do you mean you won't be coming with me?  I thought you were _itching_ to get out there."

            "I won't be going.  I'm disqualified."  He tried to keep the pain out of his voice, and failing, hoped that Archer would blame it on his injuries.  He turned something over in his fingers:  a shard from the bottle he'd used last night.  _Any weapon in a pinch_.  Funny: he'd failed knife training, was barely qualified with the sidearms, was lousy at hand to hand… _but give me a bottle, and I can take you to pieces_.  He'd heard somewhere that it took a certain feral personality to consider fighting with broken glass – some basic desperation hardwired to the soul.  He wasn't sure why he'd kept it… a memento, a penance… _or maybe just something to slash my wrist with, when I get the news_.  Maybe not his wrist, but something, anything that would anaesthetise him to the pain in his heart.

            Archer rocked back in his chair.  "_Disqualified?_  What the hell happened, Trip?  How could you be disqualified?"

            Trip dropped his eyes back to the coffee, which he hadn't touched.  "I pushed Jeffries too far.  He's having me written up.  Automatic disqualification.  I'm fucked."

            Archer closed his eyes and took a deep, slow breath.  "After all you've done… and I don't just mean the rule-breaking… and you're just giving up like that."

            "There's nothing I _can_ do.  I'm not you.  I am not Jonathan-fucking-Archer, golden child of the Warp Five program.  No one's going to protect me, no one _gives_ a fuck who my father is."  It was unfair, he knew, but he hurt too much to play nice.  _I'm a broken-bottle fighter, pal.  Welcome to the world of the monster._

            "No.  What you are is the guy who _saved_ the Warp Five program.  Don't forget it was _your_ idea to do a 'midnight' as you called it… _your_ plan."

            _Not just mine_.  No, he'd had help on the plan, but there was no way he'd admit it.  _I'm not dragging more people down with me_.

            Something must have shown on his face, however.  "I mean, even if you didn't come up with all the details yourself… no way A.G. and I would've thought have throwing it out as one of those 'Twenty-minute challenges' you and your team have so much fun with.  By the time _we _came up with something workable, the ship would've been in pieces on the scrap heap."

            Trip's eyes snapped up again.  "You knew about that?"  Hell, he hadn't even been in the same _building_ as them when he'd pulled that one.  He'd told them to wait at the 602, then assembled his team in a café down the street.  The 'Twenty-minute challenge' was the perfect cover.  The rules were simple:  throw out an idea for something – a perfect murder, a bank heist, grand-theft-prototype – then come up with a workable plan in twenty minutes.  Up until that point it had always been hypothetical… which is what he led them to believe that time.  Only Hess had been suspicious… which is probably why she'd played nay-sayer on that one, pointing out all the flaws.  He'd practically had to knock her out to keep her from going with him… but he didn't want her career going down in flames alongside his.

            He shook his head.  "Shit.  Well… Hess'll be good for the job… she wanted to help us out on that one anyway.  A lot of the good details were hers."  He doubted she'd go, though.  _Hess doesn't get along with authority, either_.  It wasn't like she needed Starfleet either… two months ago she'd announced the fact that she'd passed the Georgia State bar exam.  _Double major_, he'd joked with her once, _sounds serious_.  Only then did he discover she was a closet hockey-nut (the only thing hidden about her) and that a double major was a ten-minute penalty.  He still didn't quite understand that one, but hadn't the guts to ask.  _At least she _has_ something to fall back on_.

            What did he have?  The glorious chance to go running back to Florida with his tail between his legs, a total failure?  The wonderful opportunity to camp out on Elizabeth's couch while he tried to find some place that would take on an unreliable son-of-a-bitch for more than minimum wage?  Suddenly he felt the urge for another drink.

            "So you went out and got drunk."  Archer smiled without humour.  It wouldn't have taken a genius to guess that part… only one thing made you this sick a day later.  "That still doesn't explain the rest of it.  I mean… did you look in a mirror this morning?"

            "No."  He hadn't wanted to see how bad it was, and his face hurt too much to shave anyway.  "There was a fight."

            "Ah."  Archer was silent for a moment and then his eyes widened.  "Not…"

            "Yeah." He looked up again and smirked.  "Didn't you see my pretty face on the news?  Did they get my good side?"

            "Jesus, Trip.  What were you _doing_ in a place like that?  Don't you know you could've been _killed_?"  His eyes roamed over the damage again.  "The cops said weapons were involved…"

            Trip held up his shard of glass.  "I'm not new at it, Jon.  Why the hell do you think I grabbed the bottles out of the way when you and A.G. decided to go at it?  It wasn't because I was afraid you'd spill the beer… I didn't want either of you getting bright ideas and slashing your own wrists by mistake."

            Archer blinked, and then shook his head as though to clear it.  "Does that happen often?"

            "More than you'd think.  You don't break it just right, and you end up with a handful of slivers.  Then they just gotta do this."  He reached across the table, grabbed Archer's hand and squeezed hard.  "That's provided you don't do it to yourself first."

            "Jesus,"  Archer repeated.  "I had no idea you were such an expert on bar fights.  I mean, you're what? Barely thirty?"

            "I've been drinking since I was in high-school, Jon.  Not every place is as quiet and genteel as the 602."  He'd _needed_ last nights events, needed to drain the rage and punish himself for having it.  _Yeah, I'm a perfect fit for Starfleet_.

            "Well, thanks for caring, Trip."  Jonathan reached over and patted him on the shoulder.  "I don't know that I would've thought of it myself."  He stood up.  "One good turn deserves another."

            Trip folded the shard back down into his hand like a magic trick.  "What do you mean?"  _When did I…_

            "I'm not going to let you go hurting yourself, either.  Like you said, I'm the golden-boy around here.  Let me go have a word with Forrest.  I mean, you _did_ have a reason for going after Jeffries, right?"

            Trip told him.  "I studied drafting and architecture when I was younger, and did a lot of work on hotrods.  I may not be an _expert_ on body design… but I know a stress point when I see one.  They put her together like that… and she could be coming apart before you're ten light-years out of space dock.  _You_ piloted the prototype, _you_ know there's a regular vibration up past Warp Three.  Jeffries thinks we can dampen it… I'd rather not take the chance."

            Archer shuddered.  "Neither would I.  You just hold that thought, until I go see if we can't straighten this out.  I _knew_ I'd picked the right man for the job… and frankly I don't think I could work with Hess.  Isn't she the one with the…" he waved a hand vaguely around his head.

            "The hair, yeah.  _And_ the music, _and_ the attitude… but she's a great engineer.  I'd planned on her for SIC anyway."  If only because she had the guts to talk back to him, knowing he'd never write her up for expressing an opinion.  _And she makes me laugh_.  A valuable commodity at any time.

            Archer winced.  "Quit trying to talk me out of this.  Let a friend do you a favour for once… okay?"

            Trip nodded.  Whatever Archer _did_ say to Forrest must have worked, because…]

            _…I'm here.  Even if everybody says I shouldn't be._  He finished securing the hatch and climbed the rest of the way to the deck.

            "That's far enough."  He turned to see no one… the voice had come from further down the hallway.

            "Okay… just take it easy."  Jonathan and Kaci stood just around the corner, a man in front of them with a phase pistol.

            _Shit_.  Trip's hand went to one of the pockets of his jeans.  _I owe you again, Kace.  It was a good idea_.  Praying he hadn't been seen, he crept closer.

            "What the hell?  What are _you_ doing here?" The man wore the same outfit as Daniels, but was someone else entirely.  He turned towards Trip, a look of pure hatred on his face.  "You've screwed up everythi…" he snarled as Kaci struck with her knife, knocking it aside.  "Look, little girl…"

            The distraction was all Trip needed.  Lunging, he looped the cheese-cutter wire he'd stolen from the kitchen around the stranger's neck. Crossing his hands, he pulled, feeling the wire begin strangling his captive.  "Leave her _alone_."  Sexist as he tried not to be… there was still something wrong with a man turning on a woman… if it wasn't self-defence.  _And this doesn't qualify; you're armed _too.

            The man struggled, hitting backwards at Trip, hard.  Trip's grip loosened enough for the man to get out a sentence.  "Fuck, you."  Somehow he snatched the knife from Kaci's hand and buried it in Trip's leg.

            "_Bastard._"  The broken-bottle fighter took over.  This was life and death, and he was damned if he was going to let this son-of-a-bitch win.  He stopped thinking, just reacted to the sheer rage that broke through his exhaustion.  He pulled the wire tight again, and dug a knee into the small of his opponent's back.  Adrenaline numbed the pain of his own wound and turbo-charged his muscles.  Arms honed by years of baseball and football training flexed and tightened, and the wire – designed to slice through even the hardest of cheeses – cut into the soft flesh of the time-traveller's neck.

            "Trip!  For God's sake, Trip."  He became aware of hands pulling at his arms, hands that belonged to Jonathan and Kaci.  Abruptly the anger disappeared, leaving shock in its wake.

            "Ohmigod."  He stared down at what he'd done, at the blood dripping from the ugly wound.  His hands fell open and the body fell to the floor, unmoving.  "Ohmigod.  I killed him…  I just…"  Turning, he fell to his knees and began to retch.  It had been a possibility brought up in Academy training – the fact that he might have to kill someone – but he'd always imagined that if that eventuality ever occurred that it would be at the end of a phase pistol, or he'd be too drunk to realise, and it would be just an instant's reaction.  But this…  _I _killed_ him.  I actually took _time_ and I killed him.  Not an accident, not a reflex… I _murdered_ him._

            Kaci knelt beside him and reached one hand around to the opposite side of his head, and the other on his near cheek, holding him still.  "You did what you must.  You can't change that now."

            He turned to her, ready to lash out, then stopped.  Temper had just bought him murder… he could probably do it again.  "There's always a choice.  I didn't _have_ to kill him."

            "Yes, but the other options were untenable."  Jonathan didn't approach, leaving the two of them their space.  "He was going to kill us, he said so.  He said that we _couldn't_ get out of this…"

            Kaci looked into Trip's eyes, and he could feel their darkness pulling him in, lending him some of her calm strength.  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  Then he nodded and climbed to his feet.

            He didn't look at Jonathan – didn't feel that he could.  _Welcome to the world of the monster_.  His words not spoken to Archer came back.

            _{Whoa.  You really _did_ kill someone.}_  Toby looked down at the corpse, then up at Trip.  _{Sorry, I was watching those guys you were so worried about… I must have missed him.  And you… oh, God, this time it's real.  It's not just you blaming yourself… you really did it.  Oh, Trip.  Why can't I be alive, so I can give you a hug?} _She dragged an ineffectual hand across his tears.  _{It shouldn't have been you, you're such a Romantic… Romantics shouldn't have to do this.}_

            "I'm not a Romantic."  He could barely get the words past his lips; his throat rasped and his tongue refused to cooperate.  Still… how could someone who knew him as well as Toby make that kind of a mistake?  How could she call him something so diametrically opposed to what he was?

            _{Yes, you are.  Up front, you're cynical and sarcastic as everyone else… but deep down you _believe_ in things like Truth, Justice, and Happily Ever After.  _Shades of Grey_, Trip.  You still think of good and evil… forgetting that we're all an amalgamation of both.}_

            "You were the one who told me I wasn't a bad person.  I _still_ beg to differ."  He didn't want to look at her, either, but like Kaci, she made him – always dodging and bending to put herself in his line of vision.  His voice sounded dull even to his ears.  He looked down at his leg.  It wasn't a bad wound, nowhere _near_ the femoral.  _If he'd hit that…_

            **_Tucker…_**  Inner-Charles knew where this was headed… a direction not allowed.  **_This was _always_ a possibility.  You can't always do what you want.  Life isn't always _about_ you._**

Wasn't it?  Wasn't everybody's life about them?  Who else was it supposed to be about?  _Above all, I'm responsible for myself._

            **_Yes.  You make your decisions, and you _live_ with them.  I'm not letting you take the easy way out just because you don't want to take the tough step of looking in the mirror.  Be _Responsible_ Tucker, accept the consequences and _deal_ with it._**  He could almost feel the mental shake. **_No excuses.  A man is dead, you did it.  Stand up and deal with it.  There are no Donnelly cowards._**

            No, cowardice came from the Tucker side, didn't it?  _Daddy's boy_.  He recalled an early fight of theirs, his father screaming at his mother: _How can you say this is my fault?_  His mother's reply still held the same level of ice and steel it had then.  _You're just as responsible for him as I am.  He's _our_ son, Tucker.  Not mine, not yours, _ours_.  You can't just claim him when it's nice._  Funny how Inner-Charles had begun to emerge only when he'd left her stabilizing influence, how his inner voice used the same terms when angry as his mother always did.  _Tucker_.  Never Charles, never Charlie, never even Junior.  He hadn't made the connection before… but… __

_            I said _Archer_ taught me the Rules of Stubborn, but he must have learned them from _her.  Inner-Charles, then, was definitely the Momma's Boy, and in this family that hardly meant weak and dependent.  "What was it you said about amalgamations?"   He limped forward – ignoring Jonathan's fussing and moving on.  _Not_ a dark side then… a strong side… a side that could accept realities without having to cloak them in platitudes… a side that brooked no excuses, and took no prisoners. A dry, humourless smile twisted Trip's lips.  _No _wonder_ they call Nature a Mother_.  He sighed deeply, trying to keep hysteria at bay.  _Okay, Mom, what do I do now?_  He'd never envied the kids with the Moms who panicked at the sight of blood and used dark coloured wash-cloths on skinned knees so that their kids never had to see it, the Moms with sugar cookies and easy hugs, always ready to comfort.  Strangely, he preferred the quick, competent hand with the anti-septic swabs and the 'Shit Happens' approach to wounded feelings.  It meant there was nothing he was afraid to approach her with, no problem so horrible that she couldn't provide advice.

            _Even the sex lecture came from her_.  She hadn't trusted Charles Junior to pull that one off, not with a child as intelligent and smart-mouthed as Trip.  Before he even had his first date, he knew more about birth control and disease prevention than people twice his age.  She'd backed up every statement with a stack of literature, and ended with another warning about responsibility.  The only embarrassment had been on his side, and she hadn't let him get away with it.  But that was life, and this was death, so _What NOW?_

_            **You do the job in front of you, Tucker.  The girl's right.  You can't change what you did  -- stupid or smart as it may turn out to be – so you get on with things and accept the consequences when they happen.  **_**Heart of Darkness_, Tucker… the only way out is through._**

            Well, if the experts were to be believed, the Apocalypse _was_ now.  _And if I can prevent it… don't I have a responsibility to do so?_

            **_That's my boy_.**  He could hear pride in the tone now – now that he'd come around to seeing reason.  If only Inner-Charles had any idea what was coming next.

            He stopped, right next to the doors of the turbolift shaft, the one he and Kaci had been trapped in what now seemed to be an eternity ago.  Digging his fingers into the seam of the door, he pulled.  This time it _did_ move, slowly and laboriously, fighting him for every inch.

            "We are running out of time, Tucker.  We have to fix this now."  He looked up to see a contingent of angry people bearing down on them.  About three Danielses (including one with a limp) mixed with strangers he'd never seen and couldn't recognise other than the fact that they seemed pissed off.  Sisko tagged along behind them, watching but not saying anything.

            "Look," a woman stepped forward, but Jonathan and Kaci stood between her and him, preventing her from interfering.  "It probably helps that you eliminated Kaizen.  He was a rogue agent… we had no idea he was willing to pull something like this.  But you are _not_ supposed to be here, Tucker.  The future doesn't work…"

            He turned away, and looked down into the darkness at the abyss.  He could hear his mind screaming at him not to do this, could feel the weight of the future bearing in on him.  _This is it._  Taking a deep breath, he leapt.


	12. Faith

Disclaimer:  Technically these are not my characters.  Well, Kaci is… but… you know what I mean.  I don't own Trek.

Author's Note:  Thank you to my beta readers… you guys have no idea how much I appreciate this.  Yes… I know this is kind of short… and it may not seem to make sense…  but please have faith.  Oh, and review, please.  Thanks.

**Chapter 9: Faith**

            Parallax (n):  an apparent change in an object's position due to a change in the observer's position.

– Collins Paperback Dictionary

            "If you knew the time as well as I do, you wouldn't be talking about wasting it..."

                                                – The Mad Hatter

            The serenity to accept the things I cannot change

            Give me the courage to change the things I can

            And the wisdom to know the difference….

                        – Serenity Prayer

            She watched them stare in shock – not one of them capable of reconciling this act of pure insanity to the reality they inhabited.  They could not comprehend a thing they would not do, were unable to step into the head of the Other and realise that they were not the sole possessors of truth.

            For herself: either Commander Tucker was alive, at which point she could best help him by doing her job… or he was not, at which point she could be most useful by doing her job.  You learned that living away from the sanitized world of supermarket steaks and pre-packaged meals:  life requires death, and even the most unpleasant tasks must still be accomplished.  Anxiety accomplished nothing – it only hindered and destroyed.

            She turned to leave, unnoticed by anyone.  She did not need notice, so she rarely received it.  Even Commander Tucker – the first person here to truly see her – lost track of her if he didn't concentrate.  His notice didn't surprise her, however, for he too was a denizen of the shadowworld – of the place beyond the margins.  Reluctantly, perhaps, and eager to hide his citizenship, but he hailed from here nonetheless.

            She returned to the second turbolift.  It made sense to begin here, to restore fast travel to the other locations she would need to go.  She began testing the circuits – sending trickle charges down to determine which functioned and which did not.

            "How can you _do_ that?"  A harsh voice by her ear tried to interrupt her.  The faux-Archer grabbed her arm and shook her.

            She looked at him, saying nothing.  He grew angrier, his fingers digging into her flesh.  "He could be hurt and you're doing _ship_ repairs!  How _can_ you?"  He shook her again, then let her go.

            Released, she returned to the task at hand.  _His leaving upsets you… yet he was never yours to lose._  She could feel his pain and frustration but couldn't understand it.  _You feel helpless, like there is nothing you can do.  But when there is nothing you can do, you must do what you can_.  Most people – like this Archer, like Commander Tucker – seemed to think that if you couldn't do the big things then there was no point.  Commander Tucker understood, though, that sometimes it was best just to do the little things.

            And _that_ was one of the things that drove other people insane as they tried to understand Commander Tucker, one of the things that didn't bother Kaci in the least.  _He is Contradiction and Contrariwise._  Not just to other people, but to himself.  _You fear being alone… but would choose exile over compromise.  You would die, even kill for those you love… but will not allow them to love you, for fear that they would die or need to kill_.  It showed in the details of his life:  he worked with cutting edge technology but held an innate fondness for antiques.  He craved stability, but chose a life which guaranteed none.  His open personality allowed him to stay closed off… and no one ever suspected.  This Other-Archer could not grasp that… unable to reconcile a man afraid of heights with one who scaled cliffs.  Even Commander Tucker could not do it:  he could not bring together the Romantic and the Realist… even as he lived it.

            _Your friend understands_.  'Shades of Grey…' how many people didn't see that there were no opposites… even white and black were merely different shades of grey?  That because you were one thing did not mean that you could not be another.  _My family is not wrong_.  Nor were they wholly right, but – like everyone and everything – somewhere in between.

            This Not-Archer hovered over her, unaware of the strength of his tension and worry.  _You've grown fond of him, in these short hours, and of the bond you do not share._  Most would term it 'ironic' that lack of closeness deepened the loss.  _But it means that there is no freedom to balance that loss.  There is no memory to cushion the might-have-beens._

            _If he is lost_.  There were ways to determine for sure, certainly, but they would waste time.  And Different-Archer's fears were unfounded.  Commander Tucker would not be lying broken and bleeding… the math argued against it.  _Miracles do not come because we wish them_… miracles came with need, and with effort.  And Death did not mean the cessation of Life… just as Life did not mean the cessation of Death.  _If he needs our help… we must be able to provide it.  But you cannot be certain you know what kind of help he needs, or even wants_.

            Despite his fear and pain, Kaci felt no need to comfort this Variant-Archer… not because of his hostility, but because he had no need of comfort.  He might _want_ it… want reassurance, want to believe in the easy things… but he needed to learn to face hard and unwanted truths.  So hard for these men and women of control to accept that they could not.  Not in a world where even time was subject to manipulation… but time, fate and history were quicksilver:  these attempts to cling too tightly only hastened it out of confinement.

            She watched him in reflection, the captain so not a captain.  _You worry, but the Captain would be angry.  You are angry, but the Captain would worry.  _But he would not hover, because he knew his friend – as much as he might – and was willing to give him trust… _even though Commander Tucker fears that trust is broken. _  They were mirror twins – the captain and the commander – one younger, one older, but with the same mixture of fire and ice – of impetuosity and strategy.  Their friendship thrived and foundered on their similarities, not their differences.

            "We should help him." Alternate-Archer couldn't handle the silence – he needed it filled.

            _With what?_  If Commander Tucker was alive and wished their help, he would ask for it.  If he wasn't, then there was nothing they could help him with, and if he was but didn't want their assistance, then they would only be in the way.

            _You, too, are Contradiction.  You call yourself 'captain', but need someone else to lead the way._  There was no bitterness or condescension in the thought; it was merely a fact.  Archer would not be here, he would have climbed – if not jumped – down in search of his friend.  _He would not need me… though that does not mean he is stronger_.  Therein lay a difference between Commander Tucker and the one he idolized:  Archer saw the need for assistance as a weakness… and Commander Tucker was beginning to.

            _Contrariwise_.  She pulled out a circuit board and examined it.  Some pieces were usable, and some were not.  She began removing the damaged components – even here, where they could manufacture the entire board anew, she felt no reason to waste what was good.  _You crave independence… yet mould yourself on other people_.  Kaci could feel the scared, shy little boy that still lurked inside the man… the man modelled on the long dead girl.  _You are all she used to be…you made yourself into your memory of her_.  And now… with someone else to admire, he sought to remake himself again.

            She glanced over at non-Archer, as he paced the hallway.  So similar in appearance, and so different from the one she knew as captain.  _You fear… you fear and worry about losing him… and Archer does not know how close he came_. 

            A single short week ago… she'd felt the pain coming off him in waves, but had known there was no way to stop it.  _He would not have welcomed help…_ because Captain Archer saw the need for help as a weakness and Commander Tucker felt he had fallen enough in the captain's esteem – and that small drop had been too much for him to handle.  She knew what he could not admit:  that his greatest fear was not loneliness or even the dark shadows of insanity… but of causing disappointment.  _That_ was why he kept himself lonely… because he feared that if anyone cared for him, they would be hurt.  _You do not feel you can ever live up to what is expected of you… you hold  yourself up to standards you would never apply to another.  You are quick to offer forgiveness – but slow to understand that you may be forgiven.  And you will forgive anyone except yourself._

            And that was something that the captain came to learn from the commander:  that odd double standard of self-perfectionism and leniency for anybody else.  No forgiveness for the mirror-twin, though… instead he sought to mould him to a more perfect image.

            _But Commander Tucker needs no moulding_.  He could be impulsive – true – but then so could the Captain.  _And we are who we are… it has a purpose_.

            "Why would he… how could he… how could _anyone_?" Other-Archer moved in beside her again.  "And why like that?  If he was so scared…"

            _Because sometimes a creature wishes to end its pain_.  If Commander Tucker had killed himself, that would be his reason why.  _He does not try to spite…he would not sacrifice himself to that deity_.  But she knew why this man could not understand.  No one could understand how simple and logical it could seem – how calmly and rationally such a decision could be made.  No one could understand, unless they had faced that decision themselves.  And few understood how it could even _be_ a decision.

            _But Life and Death are not ours to control_.  She had learned that lesson with her own failure.  There had been no lack of will, but there had been no escape either.  As for his method… _that last piece of control_._  If you fear not death… then what else is there to fear?_

            "Can you please…" Different-Archer looked at her, desperate for reassurance.

            "Atonement."  Another thing that Captain Archer did not understand.  _You seek to make him responsible… but he is more responsible than you are_.  Archer – no matter which Archer – saw only the recklessness, the thoughtlessness that came before.  He remained somehow blind that it was not in the before, but in the after that Commander Tucker's devotion to Accountability lay.  _He does not deny his blame… or seek to excuse himself._

            "Atonement?"  Alter-Archer was confused.  "Atonement for what?  What has he done that's so bad…"

            She didn't answer again.  _I do not know his thoughts_.  She knew his conflicts, and his pain… she knew his struggles and his darkness and his light, but she did not know his mind.  _That is not my gift and curse_.  But Commander Tucker was not one for unpaid debts.

            _He is Mercury.  Quicksilver._  Hard to confine, and even harder to define – for he changed with every situation.  Mercury – for years known as a cure – could be a one-way trip into madness.  _Contrariwise_.  _You fear it so much that you may take yourself there_.  But not yet… she had seen no madness in those eyes – merely pain and anger.  _You are mad, but you are not mad_.

            The panel lit up under her fingers.  She entered a code and listened to the sound of the lift rising to meet them.  It might still be electrified… but that was something she could check when it got here.

            The doors opened and the scanner revealed no trace of the earlier trap.  She stepped inside, and the doors remained open as though waiting for Other-Archer to follow.

            After a moment's hesitation, he followed her and the doors slid shut behind him.  "I don't like this.  There's something about this…"

            _There is nothing about this_.  The lift began to move, though neither of them had touched the controls.

            "Not again."  Not-Archer closed his eyes, his body tensing.  "This is not happening again.  Is there _nothing_ we can control around here?"

            _Yes.  But it is a skill you have not mastered_.  People spoke of free will as though they were the only acting force in the universe.  _But nothing is absolute_.

            A memory of her own came back:  a rare conversation with a Vulcan instructor.  _"But do not people claim that God is absolute?  If that is true, than how can you say that all things have limits?"_

_            "Nothing is absolute," she repeated, "there are exceptions to everything."_  He had not understood, thinking she claimed limits on God, on the universe.  _But can you not believe that the exception _is_ God?_

            She doubted – however – that God acted alone in this instance.  There was no miracle in the self-directed turbolift – it was a thing easily enough accomplished by man.  But until they knew which man, and for what purpose… _It might prove unwise to try and change it_.  _My parents are not wrong_.  A great number of mankind's problems lay in the hubris of trying to control everything.  _The inability to accept, the need to manipulate_.  Nor was her family right, for temptation lay not within the machines, but within the people who used them, and temptation could be resisted – resisted to the point where it became unthinkable.  _The machines will not go away.  We must accept them as we accept everything else._

            The lift stopped on C-Deck at the closest entrance to sickbay.  The doors slid open and remained that way while Non-Archer hung back.  Finally Kaci stepped forward, past the captain who was not and headed where she now knew they were needed.  A few seconds later Different-Archer pulled up beside her.  "What's going on?  What are you doing?  I knew we shouldn't have trusted you…"

            _Then do not_.  Coming up to meet them was the contingent of the future, anger on every face but one where enlightenment was beginning to dawn.  Sisko – who knew about faith, and could guess what lay behind the frosted windows in front of them.

            The door slid open to reveal a single figure sitting on a biobed and studying a set of pads. His right arm rested limply in his lap, the shoulder completely out of alignment and the fingers splayed at unnatural angles. She sensed smugness and weariness from him, and the collective shock of those around her.

            He looked up, amusement glinting in his blackened blue eyes.  "'Bout time you got here… how long does it take you guys to figure things out, anyway?" 


	13. Belief

Disclaimer: These are not my characters. I do not make any money off of this.

Author's Note: To those of you who doubt that a lot of thought can take place in a short period of time… you've obviously never lost control on an icy mountain road. It's amazing how much thinking you can (and do) do in a single split-second. Memory isn't line by line… it all can happen in an instant. And I am truly sorry… but this is the last chapter… all good things must come to an end… or at least conclude. C.

**Chapter 10: Belief**

The best defence against the atom bomb is not to be there when it goes off.

–British Army Journal in _Observer_ 20 February 1949

_Nemo me impune lacessit_

No one provokes me with impunity

– Motto of the Crown of Scotland and the Scottish regiments

Expletive deleted.

–Submission of Recorded Presidential Conversations to the Committee of the Judiciary of the House of Representatives by President Richard M. Nixon 30 April 1974

.............................................................................................................................................

Taking a deep breath, Trip leapt out into darkness, feeling gravity take its undeniable hold, pulling him downwards, adding 9.68 more metres per second to his speed with every second he plunged. He knew the math – knew that if he did this wrong there would be no second chances, nothing to fix. Time slowed and lengthened, even as it kept its pace.

[ "How can you believe in something – like God – when there's no evidence that a God need exist?" Another debate on God… this time formalised for an English class setting. So far most of his teammates had been fairly lacklustre… Trip had to carry the brunt.

"Do you plan to get married, one day?" Toby's mismatched eyes locked on to his and wouldn't let go. They'd chosen sides opposite each other – how many of their classmates thought it was purely an intellectual exercise? How many on the yes side – yes He/She/It exists – truly believed? Who believed anymore… what with the speed of light no longer the limit to the speed of man… with hunger destroyed and prejudice well on its way? There was no need for God anymore… but at least one still believed.

"Yes." He did plan on it… family, friends, the whole nine yards. And after the wedding: children then grandchildren, and maybe even great-grandchildren – a Tucker clan of his own. "Of course I do."

"And do you expect that marriage to last?" He knew a trap lay in her question. Toby never asked something like that without it being heavily loaded.

"Yes. I wouldn't get married if I didn't expect…"

"How can you do that? I mean… look at the statistics. Roughly seventy percent of modern marriages end in divorce. Ninety percent of all homicides are domestically related, and out of those, eighty percent are spousal. Throw in the number of people who are separated but haven't gone through the legal wrangling of a divorce – whether 'for the sake of the kids' or some other less 'noble' reason – and the ones that live under the same roof but for all intents and purposes aren't fulfilling the definitions of marriage… how can you look at that evidence and say that _you_ are going to get married, and stay that way?"

"I…" Trust Toby – the child of one of those eighty percent – to find that angle. _You watch your father kill your mother… and you still believe there's a God._ He still had trouble believing that she could have that past… even when her grandmother confirmed it was true.

"It's called blind faith. Just because the evidence isn't biting you on the nose doesn't mean that something doesn't exist. It's something we can't live without." She spoke directly to him and he to her… the other debaters might not have even existed.

"Why not?"

"Because then we'd never be _able_ to live. You take each breath, never knowing if you'll have another one. But you _believe_ that you will. If you believe you can breathe… how can you not make the leap and believe in God?" Sunlight from the classroom window backlit her and reflected off her hair. She looked like a Bernini angel… all light and fire with a built-in hint of power and vengeance. Trip almost _could_ believe – for wouldn't this be one of His perfect messengers? Possessed of great knowledge, with ageless beauty and the sweetest of voices. Yet to the side she lay reflected in the deep black of the classroom vid-screen, her eyes bright flames in her sharp-featured face. No angel, but a demon here to torment him.

_So… God, or devil?_ And if so, which? "But evidence _is_ there… each breath before was followed by another… the evidence argues that your next one will be as well. I prefer to believe in things I can reach out and touch…"]

… and trust old athlete's reflexes to kick in in the crunch. His fingers stretched out to where the ladder should be, fire ripping through them as they merely brushed the rungs. He forced them out farther, made them connect even though the evidence said that it would be wrong to do so, that it would cause damage. The impact shattered bone, and yanked his shoulder from his socket. But it slowed him enough to allow him to grab on with his left hand and hold… jerking to an ugly but survivable stop.

**_Now there was a brilliant move and a half, Tucker. And just how the hell do you expect to climb the rest of the way down with a useless arm?_**

"Oh ye of little faith." He refused to think about the drop, failing to understand how the ability to do so qualified as rare talent. Everyone – Archer, even _T'Pol_ – tried to explain on occasion that if there was something you must not think, then it would be impossible not to think it. _You just don't think about it, that's all. You just think about something else_. Like how to attach your belt to the ladder while only using your left hand. Like tapping into the wiring and fixing the lift so that it would come _slowly_ to you, because if it came at normal speed you'd be pancaked to the wall faster than you could make a neural connection. You think about what you're trying to prove, and about how it may not be provable… _Oh the thinks you can think_. Even think about those years gone past, reading Dr. Seuss to Elizabeth. Think about…

_{You know, I might just believe that you really are insane.}_

…Toby hanging in the air, three rungs above you.

"Why? You used to convince me to do things like this all the time." Despite the pain – now being numbed by pure shock – he smiled. "By the way… I need you to stay with me."

_{Thank you, Trip. I think that's one of the nicer things you've ever said about me. I mean… there is still the age difference… and the vitality difference… and the fact that if you keep doing stuff like this there won't _be_ a vitality difference…}_

"Because I think I can accomplish more if they think I'm dead. But if Kaci sees you – she'll probably guess that I'm not… and I don't want to take the risk of her inadvertently giving something away." His smile grew as she contrived to look insulted.

_{It's always about you, isn't it? Mr. Ego the size of the Universe… Mr. I Can't Believe…}_

"Ah, but I do believe, Toby. I believe in ladders and pain… and most of all…" He undid the belt as the lift arrived, the hole still conveniently in the top. He hopped down to the roof, then through that and into the lift itself. There, still slathered on the doors lay the one thing he needed… the one thing that might prove that he _wasn't_ the man they took him for. "… most of all, I believe in blood."

They clamoured, pressing forwards, wanting to know how he did this thing, how he pulled off the miracle of resurrection when each of them knew such a thing to be beyond the realm of possibility. They wanted to know what he thought he would accomplish with this insanity. A familiar voice screamed at him, wanting to know _why_… why would he take such a risk, why would he be so careless, did he have any idea what he'd put people through.

_If you'd shut up…_ He could feel himself drifting, losing touch with all of it. He was tired, he was hurt… and there was a large possibility that whatever analgesic he'd procured from Phlox's medical cabinet was more powerful and/or narcotic than he'd originally suspected. _The doc is gonna kill me. 'Course that'll be a relief, because then I won't be able to hear the captain lecturing me about being stupid and taking drugs I know nothing about, and ' what do you think you are, a doctor?'_ Which would be its own relief, because then Archer would be talking to him like a person again, and not just Chief Engineer. _Because we may not be _that_ close… but I wouldn't mind us being friends again._ Still, none of it was likely to happen if he couldn't make these people go away. A paraphrase from an old comedy routine – Dennis Leary, one of Hess' favourites – danced its way through his head. _Tonight – due to illness – the part of Charles Tucker the Third will be played by…Charles Tucker the Third. And now…Charles Tucker the Third._

"'Thank-you, Thank-you, _Fuck_ you.' I have just one thing to say to you people, and that thing is _get the fuck off of my goddamned ship!_" Blue eyes turned from a gentle sky into polished steel. A broken and slumped body straightened, and dropped from the bed, landing securely on the floor. The contingent jumped backwards, startled.

"He's insane." One of the Danielses spoke in triumph.

Trip's left hand lashed out, a hard straight punch that caught Daniels dead in the solar plexus. Daniels gasped then collapsed to the deck.

"Crazy isn't hearing voices inside your head, crazy is listening to the ones coming from the outside saying that you're what's wrong with the universe." The accent remained Southern but the inherent warmth had disappeared from the tones. "And in case you haven't noticed, asshole, I sure as fuck ain't listening. No… don't worry about Trip Tucker losing his mind… 'cause I'm holding too fucking tightly on to it."

"What makes you so sure that this is your ship?" The question came from a woman near the back of the crowd, safely out of reach.

He reached behind him, and held up one of the pads. "This is a DNA comparison… using the blood from inside the turbolift, and my very own medical records." He tossed the pad to them, so they could look for themselves.

"That doesn't mean anything…"

"And _this_ is a DNA comparison using a sample from Jonathan over there… compared with the medical records of Captain Archer of this very ship. As you can see, while the match with me is _perfect_, there are tiny variations between Jonathan and Archer. To me, that would indicate that I _am_ supposed to be here… and with the sole exception of Crewman DiLorenza… not one of the rest of you assholes are." He tossed the second pad at them with a perfect Frisbee-style flick of the wrist.

"This still doesn't change the fact that you shouldn't…" Again from the woman buried safely in the back.

"You know… you're so fucking arrogant that _I_ seem humble by comparison. You think that because you're from the future you know everything. A non-occurrence out of an unlimited number of possibilities? Even _I _know that's so unlikely as to be impossible. But no… you see a one-off and think that the impossible has occurred… and every _fucking_ single one of you has to come charging in to fix it. Did you even_ consider_ the fucking possibility that this whole goddamn mess is because all _you_ assholes decided to show up here all at once?" He surveyed every face, seeing guilt and shock register on a few. "Yeah. Not me, but _you_. _Your_ fault… because things _aren't_ working out the way they're supposed to. Because no matter _how_ fucking hard I've been trying… you shits have been getting in my way." He snickered. "You should count yourselves lucky… because you pulled this shit with _me_. Y'see, there's your other mistake…"

"Mistake? What the hell do you mean, 'mistake?'" Someone else asked this time… someone he didn't recognise.

"You all have been running on the assumption that _I_ am the same fucking person as the Trip Tucker that you're used to… the one from whatever little piece of insignificance that you hail from. But as _he_ could tell you…" His finger stabbed out towards Jonathan again, causing the crowd to shrink back. "… I am _not_ the same as other Trip Tuckers. DNA is part of it… some things are hardwired, whether we like to think so or not. Others… I've got a friend who keeps reminding me that it's the details that matter… the little things that change the big ones. And as an Engineer… I _know_ she's right. You miss one tiny little connection out of thousands… and your engine ain't gonna function at all.

"But look at me… look at all you know about Trip Tucker, and tell me _which_ little tiny influence made me into someone different than any of the others. Maybe it's not even one, maybe it's a ton of them. _I _don't know what the fuck it is… and _I've_ lived it. Yet _you're_ willing to screw around with a more _complex_ system called the Universe. You think because you've got some broad history book view of things that you're some sort of fucking _experts_ on how things oughtta go. Well, I'm telling you that you've fucked it up _good_ this time. _I_ didn't bring every fucking future to bear on this place, _you_ did."

He could see they didn't want to believe him, but he didn't care. **_I ain't all that interested in your opinions_.** Hell, it made more sense than the fact that a single man was responsible… even if that man _was_ Charles Tucker III, Master of Disaster. Besides… in the absence of Archer, in the absence of T'Pol, Commander Charles Tucker III _was_ in charge of the ship… none of these others had official permission to be here. **_The devil is in the details, assholes_**. And what made them think they could control Destiny, when they couldn't even keep track of a single human being… especially one as transparent as Trip Tucker? One for whom they held nothing but contempt?

**_You're afraid of me, though_.** Ohh yes… he could see it in their eyes. They didn't know what to make of him… this sudden transformation from baby-faced innocence into hellfire-tempered steel. It didn't fit with what they knew… it was a detail out of place. At the same time… they'd listen to him, if only because they were afraid of the future if they didn't. The Daniels he'd dropped _still_ hadn't regained his breath fully, pain still lived in his eyes. Did they wonder about the lack of pain in his own? **_Do I really care?_**

"He might just have a point." Sisko's deep voice rumbled, cutting through the rest. "Even an Engineer couldn't mess things up this badly on his own." He alone seemed unafraid of the Irish temper… the Donnelly disposition. To the others… **_Trip Tucker's supposed to be this good-ol' Southern boy who lets things roll off his back like water off a duck._** Sure, they expected a few explosions… there still remained the hot-head reputation, but not cold-fire resentment, the _true_ Irish temper.**_ We don't let things go_**. And Sisko… He might just be the only one with an idea who he was dealing with. **_You know the details, fan-boy_**. He might have Trip coloured in as a hero… but he also seemed to know enough to wear gloves when handling dry-ice. **_Cold enough to burn you, boy._**

"I suggest you make up your minds quick… the clock is ticking." He stared down each one of them in turn – no one could hold his gaze for more than a few seconds. They knew from that brief non-contact that he'd be willing to wait them out, even if it meant total and utter annihilation. His eyes told them everything: he'd made his choice, and if the consequence was death, then so be it. **_Death is not one of my fears_**. He feared falling… but falling felt like flying, something humans were not engineered to do. Humans _were_ engineered to die, however, it was built into their very make-up. **_I do not believe in unnatural things_**. Toby still qualified… for who was to say that the soul was unnatural? **_But we were not made to fly_**.

_Technically we weren't engineered to walk, either, but that hasn't stopped us yet_.

_**Shut up**_. He didn't need a discussion of human capabilities right now. Instead he waited in calm, cold silence until they began to disperse. After a few minutes only Toby, Sisko, Jonathan, and Kaci remained.

"You, too, bud. Scram."

Sisko's face lit up in a sudden grin, then he, too, left.

"I suppose you'd like me to go, too." Jonathan seemed downcast at the prospect.

**_Well, you sure as hell can't stay_**. He felt his strength draining, then his body sagged.

****"Hey… careful." Jonathan caught him before he could hit the floor, kindly keeping away from the injured shoulder.

"Mmmn." _I hate it when that happens_. When his brain went on autopilot and left him behind. While he tended to be quicker on the uptake, and far less intimidated, it also turned him into a son-of-a-bitch. _Then it stops… and I have to deal with everybody pissed off at me_. "I hope it worked." He pushed Jonathan away and staggered over to the bio-bed.

Jonathan followed, and for a moment they both simply stood there, while Trip tried to make sense of his feet. _Archer's gonna kill me… if Phlox doesn't first._

" I just… Charles has been so… It's felt _better_ being here…"

An odd segue occurred to Trip. "Remember when I said a depressing pattern?"

Jonathan nodded.

"See, the women I've had the best relationships with are the ones that remind me of my mother. Smart, funny, and won't let me get away with anything. You remind me of my father."

A look of pride moved onto Jonathan's face, only to disappear as Trip continued.

"You're pathetic. You've got someone who treats you like shit, but you forgive it all because you're 'in love. ' You've got a billion excuses for his behaviour, but won't do a damn thing about it. Well, like my Grandaddy used to say, 'Lie down and I _will_ walk all over you'" Again that shift… into necessary cruelty. Funny, though, how Charles the First raised such a milquetoast of a son.

They locked gazes. Jonathan looked away first. "And I will. Why shouldn't I? And if Charles is anything like me, which you seem to think, then that's exactly what you're gonna get. He's gonna push and push until he hits the limits, and so far you haven't shown any. Fuck. If he was here right now, _I'd_ smack him upside the head, and all he's guilty for with me is a mistaken identity.

"You want to keep him? You're gonna have to grow a backbone, and grow it stiff. Tell him you've had enough, or all you're gonna get is more of the fucking same. My dad? He was scared of me, same way you're scared of Charles. He'd lay down laws, but he never backed them up. I was breaking into fucking _houses_ to try and see if he'd make me back down, and he never did once."

_{Wasn't he the one…}_ Toby's voice trailed off as she realised the truth. Sure, it was his father who picked him up after the stolen car arrest, but not through any measure of willing.

"Only because my mom made him. _She_ knew what I was up to, what I was trying to prove. So he bailed me out, bawled me out, but took it no further than that. A week later I was back to the same thing, and he fucking did _nothing._ That was the same year my parents split up for six months, remember?" Mom had walked away, taking the kids with her. Gave Trip a new set of rules, and knocked him back every time he crossed the line even a bit. " 'Cause she knew that I had _no_ respect for him at that point, and wasn't going to get any. And she couldn't fight us both, so she decided to go with the one she could save."

"But," Jonathan looked hurt, probably _was_ hurt, but Trip wasn't going to be nice about it. **_You want saving? You want redemption, buddy? Start believing you deserve it for a start._**

"But what? Love is about forgiveness? Well you'll have to excuse me, because I haven't gotten around to that one yet. Besides, forgiveness ain't the same as being a goddamn fool. My mom could forgive me, could forgive me damn near anything, but she didn't let me get away with shit. Dad? Oh he'd give me the silent treatment for a while, but he never tried to stop me, never set any consequences." All the best women he'd known: Toby, Gina, hell even Hess, had the same set of standards. He'd never dated any of them, but maybe that's why the relationships were able to last.

He softened his tone, if only slightly. "Malcolm once said I was a poster-child for Peter-Pan complex. Maybe he's right. I don't want to grow up, not completely – not forever. But like any kid, I _do_ like knowing where the hell I stand. And from what I've seen of you, that's not something you're capable of providing." It was why he and Captain Archer were such great friends, too. Because he knew that if he crossed that line, there were repercussions, and that absolution did not come easy. "It may not be love, but it's _respect_, which is a hell of a lot harder currency to come by." And that was the hardest truth of all, the one Trip had never been able to grasp. He loved his brother, he loved his father, but could respect neither of them.

Jonathan sagged against the bio-bed, every inch of protest gone. "If I do that, he'll leave…"

"He's left you anyway… he just hasn't gone away yet. I've had it happen to myself so many times, that by now I don't even bother trying the denial bit. Only woman I can't get rid of is twenty years too young for me, and dead."

_{Hey.}_ Toby protested the description, or maybe it was the get rid of part. _{I can leave any time I want to buddy, if I happen to like hanging around with a moronic idiot, well then I can if I want to.}_

"I know you are, but what am I? If you like hanging out with a moron…" He left the sentence hanging as she stuck her tongue out and made a face. He turned back to Jonathan. "Same goes for you. If you haven't got the self-respect to walk away, then I can't help you. But if you're half the poker player _my_ Archer is, then you understand that you've got to be prepared to risk everything if you're going to win everything. Call his bluff. Five'll get you ten he folds. I do every time." _If_ he valued what he himself risked losing. Security, family, they topped the list. **_Unless it's _the_ ultimatum. But I don't think your boy has that kind of guts._** "But he has to believe that you mean it. Like I said, my parents split up for six months. That's how long it took for my dad to realise that Mom wasn't coming back. That if he wanted to have her in his life, he had to start _being_ in that life with her, not just coasting through."

"Do you really think he'd stay? Are you sure he wouldn't just decide I wasn't worth the time? Worth the effort?"

Trip exploded. "What fucking effort? From what you've said, he hasn't had to make any. Whatever he does, it doesn't matter because you'll always be there for him to go back to. Love's not always enough of a motivator. Fear. The understanding that you have to be responsible, or everything could be gone in an instant." He felt himself wanting to cry, from sheer frustration. How stupid could people get? How much did it have to hurt before a person realised that they had to quit going in the direction they were going? "I learned that the hard way." He pointed at Toby, forgetting for the moment that Jonathan couldn't see her in her current state. "_She_ taught me that, the day she walked away and never came back. If I could go back and fix things… I'd do anything to have my best friend back. But I _can't_. Not even with a million time-travel devices, because it would be _wrong_. I wouldn't learn my lesson – would wind up just like Charles.

"But you want it all, don't you? Ice-cream and sprinkles too." Bitterness soaked the words. "Well, I hate to break it to you, but the universe doesn't work that way, and I don't care what universe you come from. People don't value what they get for free. They value what they have to work for, what they _earn_. You heard me tell Sisko that I hate baseball."

Jonathan nodded. "So does…Charles. He never would explain that."

"I hate it because I'm so good at it, because it's so goddamned easy. Football I had to work at, and I love it. Math was never my strong subject at school, and here I am an engineer, and wouldn't trade it for anything. Because I had to work at it, because when I got there I had _accomplished_ something." So many people couldn't understand that, thought Trip was crazy for taking the hard way when an easy one was available. "The only good thing about baseball was that I spent four fucking years playing it for that scholarship, all the while I detested every one. But I wouldn't quit, was too stubborn to quit." How much was getting through? One word in twenty? One in a thousand? T'Pol picked up on motivational issues quicker than this, and she wasn't even human.

"Well, Charles is stubborn. I will admit you've got that in common." The ghost of a smile played on Jonathan's lips.

"Good. Now use that. Let him know he can't take the easy route – that you're not putting up with it any more. And when he goes to walk away, let him. Hell, help him out with his bags and wish him luck. If he goes for good, then you really haven't lost much. If he doesn't, make him stick by the new rules, and it's a win-win. You keep him, and your self respect." _Funny_. He could give out relationship advice, be dead on accurate with it, but couldn't make it work for himself.

**_Maybe because you never give it enough _time_, asshole._ **

"It won't be easy…" Finally Jonathan seemed to be considering the prospect, however reluctantly.

"No, it won't. But if you keep giving up it won't be possible at all. But you can't do it partway. It may hurt like hell… but pain is survivable."

"Good." Jonathan suddenly smiled wolfishly. "Then you won't mind this." He put his hands on Trip's shoulder, felt it for a moment then shoved hard. Trip screamed as the pain cut through even his drugged haze, and his shoulder clicked. He staggered backwards, wondering what he'd done to deserve it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kaci watching with approval.

"Uhh." He tried moving his shoulder, and while it hurt like hell, it still functioned. "Thanks. I appreciate that." Pain pulled him sharply into the here-and-now… made him focus.

Jonathan shrugged. "Well… you did say pain was survivable."

"I didn't say I was a masochist." One good thing about this coming to an end – maybe people without medical degrees would stop treating his injuries. _Not that Phlox is any nicer_.

**_Not that you're any smarter_. **Trust Inner-Charles to remember who decided to take the drugs.

The ship shuddered and the lights dimmed and blackened. "Shit." _So much for fixing things._ Trip pulled an igniter out of his pocket and clicked the switch. A golden, flickering glow illuminated a couple of feet. "I don't suppose you've got any candles."

"Sorry, I left them in my dining room." Jonathan's dry sarcasm drifted out of the dark. "Any other brilliant ideas?"

"Um…"

Blue light arced through the room… Kaci either hadn't abandoned, or had retrieved the diving light he'd given her.

"Thank you, Crewman." Trip clicked off the igniter.

_**Thank **_**you._ The last thing we need is you setting your hair on fire._**

"I haven't done that in over twenty years." He ran his good hand across his head, reflexively. _Yup, still all there_. He couldn't help it… it was one of his few major vain points. Hess had once accused him of having a better stock of hair products than _she_ did. _But it looks damn good_. He was about to tuck the igniter back into his pocket when it disappeared.

_{I don't care. You're _still_ not allowed to have this.}_ Trust _Toby_ to still be paranoid about Trip and combustibles.

With Trip taking the lead – leading Jonathan didn't seem the least bit strange anymore – they made their way down to the turbolift. The doors opened of their own accord, and he found himself staring into a bright light, a familiar face.

_Hello, asshole_.

"What the fuck? Jon?" His doppelganger looked past him and over at Jonathan. "Where the hell have you been? You didn't get off the ship… I haven't been able to contact you… you've got to start…"

He stared at himself… his might-have-been… his never was. Come to think of it, the face wasn't familiar at all. He didn't recognise the whiny twist to the lips, the carelessness in the eyes. He took in the fists… fingers that curled naturally into weapons instead of falling open in friendship. He sensed Jonathan hanging back behind him… afraid of this monster that he'd thought he'd known. "Backbone." Trip murmured.

"'Scuse me?" Doppelganger tried to pull himself taller and seem more menacing. The trick was so basic, so pathetic that Trip nearly laughed. _Ever used a broken bottle, pal?_ Doppelganger wanted to _be_ a monster, and couldn't recognise a real one when it stared him in the face.

"Violence doesn't solve anything." He spoke so mildly that he might have been discussing the weather.

"Who the fuck…" As if it wasn't obvious.

"Sorry? Was I speaking to you?" He hadn't been… he'd been telling himself. _I want to smash that pretty little face of yours right out the back of your skull… because the very sight of you makes my skin crawl. Because you're just a pathetic little cry-baby and not _worthy_ of the name Tucker… Trip Tucker, anyway. Because maybe it'll show Mr. No-Confidence back there how non-invincible you are… Just because._ He couldn't, though… it would be…

_{**Go for it.**}_ Oh well, when self, inner-self and best friend all agree… He came around with his left, aiming straight for that most vulnerable of spots, the one guaranteed to cause this bastard pain. A sharp, fast, dirty shot… learned best in a bar-fight.

Cartilage crunched and his doppelganger stumbled backwards, howling. "Bastard! What the hell…"

Trip turned around and shook Jonathan's hand, even if it was with the wrong one. "The drugs aren't that good," he explained. "Anyway… good luck, and remember what I said. I think I've got him to a point where he might be inclined to listen… especially if you do it like I told you. No quarter… forgive if you want… but never forget. Make him earn it."

Jonathan glanced towards his wounded lover and nodded. "I'll try. Thank you. For everything."

"You're welcome." He fumbled around in one of his pockets until he found a small souvenir. _I don't need it anymore… maybe it will help you_. "To remember me by."

Jonathan took it gingerly, a small bloodstained shard of green glass. "What…"

"A little piece of something I once used in a fight. You can't win by playing fair… not when it's important. If the other guy's trying to take you apart… you gotta be willing to get nasty." He nodded to the turbolift where Charles leaned against the wall, moaning. "Keep yourself together… believe in _you_, and help him realise that there's worse things than having a little respect. Now move… I think the window of opportunity is closing."

Jonathan smiled, slipping the shard into his own pocket. "Thank you. And good luck, yourself. Even if you are an incorrigible, foul-mouthed, rule-breaker. And you quit giving up so easy, too. You're not as bad as you seem to think." He blinked in surprise, obviously feeling a chill as Toby suddenly flung her arms around him.

The air got even colder as that light high voice became truly audible once again. "Maybe from you, he'll listen." Jonathan smiled wider and Charles looked around wildly at these words from nowhere. Trip simply stared in shock, unable to believe it. _You _hate_ Archer… you think he's a hypocritical bastard… but this guy's okay._ Then again… Toby never was predictable.

Jonathan stepped into the turbolift and the doors closed again, whisking them away, hopefully home. This time Trip braced himself as the ship lurched and spun, then everything brightened again.

"Well… are we back?" He set off at a jog for the mess hall, needing a window to look out of. The stars twisted lazily outside – alive and moving. He dropped to his knees and laughed, huge laughs of relief. "Thank you, God." He knew – now – how Toby could believe. It wasn't walking through the fire that made you believe, it was the fire itself and that it was there so you _could_ walk through. While it might not make you stronger, it could make you become who you needed to be. _How many tiny pieces make up the whole… pure chance just doesn't cover it._

He climbed to his feet and began the long trek down to the shuttlebay. Kaci and Toby fell in beside him, no leader, no follower… just three people walking down a hallway lost in their own thoughts.

_She's getting a promotion… a commendation if I can't do that. Hell, I just saved the universe… I can get Kaci a goddamn promotion._

_**If she wants one**_.

And that – he realised – was the only sticking point. Would Kaci even care? Would she find the extra responsibility – the extra need for human interaction – unsuitable? "Kaci… do you want a promotion?" It was strange to ask… nearly anyone would jump at the chance to move up and move on.

"I am content where I am. I can do my job." Not really an answer… but enough of one, all the same.

"Okay, just checking." _Then I'm going to let you _do_ it… even if it means letting you do whatever you want_. She was, after all, the better judge of what needed doing – taking over the small stuff while everyone else focussed on the bigger things. _But the small things are just as vital._ He didn't have the mind to think in that detail – perhaps it would be better if she still slipped in unnoticed so that no one complained about the waste of time and resources on something 'non-essential.'

He waited outside the bay to the familiar sounds of depressurisation and repressurisation. Only then did he step inside to see who got there first.

"Trip! Thank God, you're okay!" Archer sprinted towards him in an uncharacteristic and uncaptainly display of enthusiasm. "When I found out you didn't make it onto one of the escape pods…" He stopped abruptly. "What the hell happened to you?"

"You don't want to know. You'll only yell at me." He grinned, knowing he'd be yelled at anyway. But that was okay, because it would be personal: it wouldn't be the captain castigating a junior officer who screwed up a diplomatic mission – it would be Jonathan Archer scolding Trip Tucker for being so careless with his own life and limb. Familiar ground – _family_ ground, when you got right down to it.

But it was over now, and he didn't need his strength anymore. It slipped away and he sagged towards the deck. Only Archer's quick reflexes kept him from going all the way.

"Somebody get the doctor." Archer moved to Trip's left side as he caught the gasp of pain from Trip when he grabbed the right. He looped Trip's arm over his shoulders, holding him upright.

"I don't need the doctor… I've just broken a few bones, that's all."

"You're babbling." Archer flicked his finger into the side of Trip's head.

"Whatever, old man." He knew the line would get Archer going… it always did.

"Old, hell. I'll still probably outlive you, you stupid son-of-a-bitch. How many times to I have to tell you: your name's not Clark Kent."

"I can't be Superman… I'm afraid of heights." There, he said it – the secret was out.

"I know that, you idiot. Why the hell do you think I took you mountain climbing? I need something to get even with you for all the hassle you cause me." Archer wrapped an arm around Trip's waist and began guiding him towards the shuttle-bay doors.

"Well, you'll never get even for _this_. 'Cause I got to save the universe, y'know." He grinned again, proudly. "An' _I_ didn't even mess it up."

"That's a first." Archer hit the door to the turbolift… and nothing happened.

"Whoops." Nice to know _some_ things didn't change. "I think we broke it again." Except… he could see a ring of pink light around the control panel – a detail Archer seemed to have missed. "Let me." He hit the button again, three times.

The doors opened smoothly, and he ignored Archer's quizzical look. "I am the master."

"You're something." He tuned out the rest of it, just let Archer babble on about how pig-headed and stubborn and stupid he could be. _Just like a brother._


End file.
